lyw 



(r 



V 



7M 



n^i 



1 



FOTUlNrD 



TEUE TO THE LAST, 



A Spectacular Drama in Five Acts. 



BT y 

JOSEPH A. BEUCE. 




NEW. YORK : 

C. G. BuRGOYNE, Printer, 29 Rose Street. 
1881. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the j'ear 1881, by 

Joseph A. Bruce, 
in'^the office of the Librarian of Congre8s,^at Washington, 

A II Rights Reserved. 



£.- 



Dramatis Persons. 

Edward St. Leon, (Ferguson's Clerk). 

John Thompson, (Captain of Sea Gull). 

John Hovey, (Count Casino via). 

Tom, (Boatswain of Sea Gull). 

Captain Morton, (Captain of the Kescue). 

George Ferguson, (Merchant). 

Jasper Johj^son, (Cook on Sea Gull). 

Col. Bill, (Manager of Combination). 

SiGNOR Gyptum, (Eoyal Jester). 

Judge Pendleton, 

Captain Belmont, (of Her Majesty's army). 

Lm Servants. 

Mr. Eogers, (Detective). 

Alice Pendleton, (Niece to Judge Pendleton). 

Florence, (Daughter to Judge Pendleton). 

Mrs. Morton, (Captain Morton's Wife). 

Kate, (Daughter Captain Morton). 

Mrs. Pendleton, (Judge's wife). 

Soldiers, Sailors, Cannibals, &c., &c. 
Dresses, modern. 



FOUND; OR/rRUE TO THE LAST. 



ACT I. 



Scene 1st: — Staten Island, Fort Hamilton on L. 
Path doivn Set Rocks on B. Set Rocks, working 
wafer, &c. 

[Enter, Count Casinovia and John Thompson]. 

Count. — Now, John, I hope that you are not going 
to turn coward at this late day? 

J. Thomp. — No, I turned coward the day I let 
myself be tempted by you, Jack Hovey. 

Count. — Hush, don't mention that name, for here 
I am the Count. 

J. Thomp. — And why the Count? 

Count. —Because I am wanted by the Bank of 
England to explain some mysterious transactions, 
and not having any desire to travel, I must remain 
here unknown for the present, and I would not have 
been seen by even you, but that I know I can trust 
you and I need your help. 

J. Thomp. — Yes, that unlucky hold of yours has 
ever been my ruin, and from which it seems to be 
my doom to never escape, until I am dragged down 
to a felon's grave. Oh! that one rash step, so easily 
taken, never, never to be retraced. 

Count. — Hush, man! What is the matter with 
you, are you crazy? 

J. Thomp. — Crazy; yes, yes, I must have been, to 
have allowed myself to be persuaded by you to do 
that which has made me an outcast from those 
whom I loved most dear on earth, and to whorix I 
must ever remain as dead; even in my dreams I 
fancy (although it seems too terribly real for fancy) 



that I feel your fiendish fingers chitching with a 
tightening grip my throat, until my bursting eye- 
balls start from their sockets and I choke, while 
your mocking voice rings in my ears, remind 'ng me 
that you will release your hold only after you have 
succeeded in dragging me down to Hell. 

Count. — Nonsense, nonsense, this is all rank folly. 
Why, man, it is for your own good that I wished to 
see you. 

J. Thomp. — Good, did you say? What mockery 
that sounds coming from such lips as yours. Why, 
Jack Hov 

Count. — Hush! 

J. Thomp. — Ah! true, I forgot. Count, I should 
have said, do you know the meaning of good? No, 
of course not. Why, the nearest you ever came to 
good was goods, and then you stole them. 

Count. — Damn your prating tongue you are not 
the John Thompson you used to be. 

J. Thomp. — I was in hopes not, but with your foul 
influence creeping over me I feel as though I soon 
would be if I stayed much longer here, and I w^on't 
tempt fate by remaining, so good day. 

Count. — Hold dear friend Thompson you forget 
that I need your help, and I know that you have 
not the heart to refuse me a favor when I ask. 

J. Thomp. — No, because I can't (worse luck to 
me), well what is it? 

Count. — (rubbing his hands) Oh!' that's more like 
yourself, a man deserves credit that's game, thief or 
no thief. 

J. Thomp. — If all men were only game there 
would be no thieves. 

Count. — Never mind about that John; we won't 
quarrel over it; but where have you kept yourself 
these last five years? 

J. Thomp. — On the sea whaling, that was my 
first step towards reformation, and at that I 
have remained, until to-day, I stand the owner 
(and honestly at that) of the staunch-built 
Brig, The Sea Gull, which you can see lying 
off shore there. 

Count.— Yes, she's a beauty, -I suppose John, that 
you make lots of money at that business? 



J. Thomp.— No, we don't make very much, but 
what we get, we work hard and honestly for, then 
we enjoy it as only those who work for it can. 
Come Jack, come along with me, let me now tempt 
you, not as you tempted me, but to do what's right, 
come and be an honest man, let me tempt yoa by 
offering half of what I've got, as you did to me, 
but with this difference, that what I offer is hon- 
estly mine. 

Count. — I can't John, I am to old at the business 
now. I would be recognized if I left off this dis- 
guise, and besides I don't believe in what you call 
honesty, its all very well if you are rich, but when 
yoa are not, its a rough road to travel. No John I 
couldn't be honest if I would, and I wouldn't if I 
could. 

J. Thomp. — Yes, I fear you speak the truth, by 
your own perseverance you have succeeded in getting 
past reformation. If you had but displayed the 
same amount of talent in honest, legitimate business 
you might have now been a happy man instead of 
being a miserable mean scoundrel, afraid to look 
the honest daylight in the face; an outcast from all 
that is respectable, and as you have also made me, 
a se'f-banished exile from your own home. 

Count. — Here, John, take a drop on it, a little of 
that kind of preaching goes a long way, so let up on 
it and come to business. 

J. Thomp. — Not to do more harm I hope? 

Count. — No, John, but to give me a chance to es- 
cape. 

J. Thomp. — In what way? 

Count>.— By carrying off one who is about to in- 
form on me. 

J. Thomp. — What! more villiany? 

Co Jnt. — Not so; this is a young man who has 
tracked me down merely to get the reward. Now, 
John, you surely will not compel me to commit 
murder to save my own life? 

J. Tiiomp. — Is that all there is in it, and have you 
spoken truly? 

Count. — Yes, John, on my oath I have. 

J. Thomp. — Well, then to save you from com- 



8 

mitting still greater crime I will consent, but he 
will not be harmed. 

Count. — Oh! no, don't hurt him. I would rather 
take my chance of escape. 

J. Thomp. — Jack, if you are speaking the truth 
then your face lies, but I will take him to save him. 
When and where will I get him? 

Count. — At this place to-night at — let us walk 
on, I see some one coming. 

[Enter Alice and Florence Pendleton.'] 

Flo. — Why, Alice, what makes you seem so dull 
to-day? You who are usually so gay and lively. 

Al. — Florence, dear, I know not what it is sad- 
dens me so, but I seem to have a strange foreboding 
of something dreadful about to happen to me. I 
know^ that it sounds very silly, but try how I will, 
I cannot shake the feeling off. 

Flo. — Alice, my dear, this is something new for 
you to give away to such foolish fancies. Why, 
what can you fear when you are under father's care. 
I am sure both father and mother love you, as if 
you were their own child, not to mention poor me, 
who you know loves you with more than a sister's 
affection. 

Al. — Yes, dear, deav Florence, I know you 
do, and it is that which has made me so hap- 
py since I came under your roof, but for- 
give my tears, cousin. I cannot help thinking 
of my dear parents sometimes, and when I think of 
how my dear noble father sacrificed himself that all 
in his charge should be saved, I cannot restrain my- 
self. I was, you know, but eight years of age at 
the time, and it is now nearly twelve years since, 
yet it seems but yesterday when the dreadful news 
came to my darling mother that the steamship 
w^hich my father had commanded for nine years 
without an accident, had founded on a sunken rock, 
none of the passengers or crew being lost excepting 
he, through whose bravery and exalted idea of duty, 
the safety of the rest was secured; for with heroic 
devotion he refused to leave the ship until the mean- 
est one on board was out of peril, then, oh! then,it 
was too late for him; the ship, which was almost 



to the water's edge by that time suddenly parted in 
two, and my dear, dear father was never seen 
again; my poor mother, who was in dehcate health 
at the time, on hearing the fatal news, swooned 
away, and never recovered consciousness until a few 
moments before her death, when, while in the act 
of clasping me to her heart, kissing me and blessing 
me, her gentle loving spirit tied from earth to join 
my dear, dear father in Heaven (sobs). 

Flo. — Alice dear, my sweet cousin, come, try to 
control your feehngs, you know that you have found 
another father and mother in mine. 

Al. — Yes, Florence; forgive me! they have indeed 
been more than good to me, only that. I felt so de- 
pressed in spirit, I should not have acted so selfishly. 

Flo. — I recollect the time of your misfortune, 
Alice; I was very young, and I won- 
dered to see my father cry, he told me 
that his brother was lost at sea, and that the shock 
had killed your poor mother; forgive me, Alice, you 
know that I was very young then; when I confess 
that I felt more joy than grief, foi' my father told 
me that you, my cousin, should henceforth live with 
me, and I was to be a sister to you; but I am afraid 
that I have been a very selfish and cross companion, 
while you wei'e always so good and 

Al. — Now, Florence: my own darling sister, friend 
and cousin, I won't listen to your abuse of your 
ov/n sweet self (kisses her), i^ you will forgive me 
this time, for my selfish sorrow, I will try to appear 
more cheerful in future. 

Flo. — I think I know how to make you look more 
happy. Let us talk about Edward St. Leon. 

Al. — Ah! you sly puss; then you think that I love 
him? 

Flo. — Oh! no, I don't think so, but I am sure of 
it. Another thing I know is, that he loves you too. 

Al — Too, eh! not too much, I hope. 

Flo. — Oh! no; that would be impossible, but I am 
afraid that the Count is almost as much in love with 
you as Edward is, for even when I look my sweetest 
on him he seems to have no eyes for any one but 
you. Now, Alice, what do you think him? 



10 

Al. — Why, cousin, I do not think of him at all, 
but it seems to me that all the thinking of him is 
done by yourself. 

Flo. — Perhaps, then, when he finds he cannot 
make any impression on you, he may give your poor 
cousin a chance. 

AL— The Count? Why, Florence, if he offered 
you his hand to-morrow you would not accept him, 
with all his splendid castle, estate and title, for I do 
not think candidly that he is a very great favorite 
with you. 

Flo. — Well, dear, to tell the truth, there is some- 
thing about him I cannot like, Although he has 
been here about eight months, yet I feel as uncom- 
fortable in his presence as on the first day he came. 
His eyes always remind me of a snake's, and 

Al. — Oh, fie! Florence, do not abuse the man on 
account of his looks, which, of course, he cannot 
help. I am sure he is always very polite to every 
one. ^V 

Flo, — Well, dear, the more I see of him the less I 
want to see. But here comes pa. 

[Enter Judge.] 

Jud. — -Well, well, what are you two conspirators 
doing here? Plotting against some poor fellow's 
heart, I'll warrant. 

Flo. — Oh! papa, I never dreamt of such a thing. 

Jud. — Well, judging you by your looks, I find you 
both guilty, and accordingly sentence you both to 
come with me. 

Flo. — All light, your honor, but I beg you to re- 
serve sentence on my poor innocent cousin and 
allow her to remain to meet Edward, who will soon 
arrive. 

Al. — Oh! FJorence. 

Jud. — Ah! I see; then I will reserve my decision 
in her case; but if she is not married by next Christ- ^r"- 

mas, I will sentence her to old maidenhood for life. 

Flo. — Oh! how horrible, you wicked dear old 
Judge. 

Judge. —Contempt of Court, sentenced to two 
kisses (^kisses her) and as for you Miss Alice, thank 



11 

your good looks for saving you, for I still think you 
guilty of the original charge. 

[All laugh, and exit Judge and Flo.] 

Al. — Yes, it is almost time for Edward, I had al- 
most forgotten him, if such a thing were possible. 
Dear noble Ed., what a cloud of gloomy thoughts 
his sunny smile dispels, and he, also is an orphan, 
that bond does indeed seem to attach us more fondly 
to each other, I wonder if all orphans are attracted 
to each other. 

[Enter Count quietly]. 

Count.— Certainly Miss Alice, why not, I myself 
am an orphan and I'm sure I feel your attractions. 

AX.— [Startled]. Oh, Count, I did not know that 
you were near. 

Count. — You seldom do seem to know that I am 
near my dear young lady (especially when that Ed. 
is around) [aside]. 

Al. — Now, Count, you wrong me, for I am sure 
that no one could fail to notice such a pleasant com- 
panion as you when present, but what I meant was 
that you came so quietly that I was not aware of 
you being here. 

Count. — I know, Miss Alice, that I may appear 
rather quiet, but I may mean as much as those who 
make more noise, but as to being a pleasant com- 
panion I fear you flatter me. 

Al. — No, Count, I do not, as I have been taught 
from childhood to despise flattery in every form, but 
I pray, do not let me detain you as you will find 
Uncle and Cousin Florence up at the house, for they 
have just left for there a few seconds ago. 

Count. — I will see your Uncle bye and bye, but at 
present I wish to speak to you Miss Alice. 

AL— To me? 

Count. — Yes, my dear young lady, this oppor- 
tunity I have long waited for, and it is now time I 
should speak. 

Al. — Please explain yourself more clearly, County 
for if I can assist you in any way, I will be most 
happy to do so. 

Count. — Thanks Miss Alice, you can assist me 
greatly. 



12 

Al. — Can I, then pray do not delay in informing 
me how. 

Count. — Well, lam in love. 

AL— What! Count; youinlove? 

Count. — Yes, I am in love; deeply; madly in 
love. 

Al. — What a happy woman she must be who pos- 
sesses your love. 

Count. — Do you then think so? 

AL— Why not? But who is this sweet lady, and 
in what manner can I be of assistance, may I 
ask? 

Count. — Can you not guess dear Miss Alice? 

AL — No, Count, I must say I cannot. 

Count. — Her sweet name is Alice Pendleton. 

Al.^ — [draiving aivay frightened.] What, you sure- 
ly do not mean 

Count. — Yourself, dearest Alice, and here at your 
feet I ask you to become my own dear wife. 

Al. — Oh, Count! I am sure this is but ; o me 
thoughtless jest. 

Count. — No, it is not. Oh, Alice! I have tried 
hard to conquer my love for you, only to find in what 
a hopeless task I was engaged. 

AL — Count, I feel surprised and sorry for what 
you have said, pray leave me now and think no 
more of what has passed. 

Count. — No, dearest Alice, my love is that of an 
honest man, and here on my bended knees, I offer 
you my title and fortune. Nay, dear Alice, I will not 
rise until I know my fate. 

AL — An honest man's love should not be trifled 
with, and I wish with all my heart, Count, that you 
had bestowed your affections on a more worthy ob ~ 
ject, as, although I sincerely sympathize wit" 
you, I must tell you that 1 can never be you^ 
wife. 

Count. — Thank you for your frankness, dear 
young lady, and as you cannot give me your love, I 
hope you will still allow me to remain your friend. 

AL — Certainly, with pleasure, Count. 

[Exit Count ivlio hides and ivatches.'] 
[Scene gradually changes to tiuilight.] 



13 

AL— Poor fellow, although I never could fancy 
him much, I am very sorry to have been the means 
of causing him any unhappiness. Hark! — Yes, that 
is Eel. comhig; how glad I am that he has come at 
this moment; I feel my nerves all unstrung. 

[Eater Edward St. Leon.] 

Ed. — Ah! Alice, darling, my own sweet love, wait- 
ing for me, eh? it seems an age since I gazed on 
your loving eyes, but you look pale and frightened, 
dear, — has anything happened to annoy you, tell me 
sweet one. 

AL — Oh! Ed., I feel so glad that you have come. 
I have had a strange feeling over me all day, that 
depressed and made me feel very dull. I have also 
been ti'oubled about something, but I will tell you 
all another time. 

Ed. — Dear Alice, do not fear, I am by you. 

AL — Oh! Ed. when you are nigh me all my trou- 
ble vanishes; all then seems joyful and bright. 

Ed. — Well, dear one, I have good news to tell you. 

AL — About who? 

Ed. — About myself. 

AL — Oh, then tell it to me, for any news concern- 
ing you is indeed good news to me. 

Count. — [sotto voce]. She will think differently 
this time to-morrow. [Steamship passes, fires gun.] 

Ed. — Alice dear, you have promised to be my wife, 
and I will soon be in a position to warrant my ask- 
ing you to fulfil that promise, as I will soon be com- 
paratively rich. 

AL — bo not mention that, dear Edward, for when 
I come of age I will have more than enough for both. 

Ed. — Spoken like the dear generous-hearted girl 
that you are; but Alice; dear, you will not keep me 
waiting until that time, surely? 

AL — A year from next Christmas I shall be of age, 
then, if you wish, I will be your loving wife. 

Ed. — Then, Alice, God willing, I will make you 
my v/ife on that joyful holiday; but how long the 
time seems to that happy moment, when I can call 
you mine. 

AL — Oh, no, Edward; when you are busy you 



14 

will find the time short, and you will find plenty to 
do between this and then. 

Ed. — Yes, Alice, perhaps I will, for you know 
that I am supposed to be an orphan, but of that 
there is nothing certain; all I know is that I am told 
that I was picked up on the ocean, fastened to a . 
piece of a wreck, adopted by a Frenchman and wife 
by the name of St. Leon and brought up by them, 
as their own until death; they were poor [moon grad- 
ually rising] but true, honest people, with hearts of 
gold, and when they died they had nought to leave 
me but their name and blessing. The only clue to 
my identity was a locket w^hich was clutched tight- 
ly in my hand when found — my adopted parents 
said that there weje two minatures, a lady and gen- 
tleman inside, also the monogram '^E. M" on the 
outside, but, alas I even that was lost in the confu- 
sion of our leaving the ship. I was only about two 
years old then, so of course I recollect nothing about 
it myself. 

Al. — How strange to think that the same sea that 
took from me a father should give me a 

Ed. — Husband, as I hope soon to be; but first I 
will endeavor by every means in my power to obtain 
further clues to my parentage. 

Al. — And for your sake, dear Edward, I hope you 
will succeed. 

Ed. — See, the moon is up and 5^ou may take cold 
in this chilly night -air, so you had better go up to 
the house. 

Al. — But you will come, also? 

Ed. — Certainly, dear, to see you there, but I can- 
not stay as I have business to attend to this evening. 
[Exit talking]. 

[Enter Count from behind rocks.'] 

Count. — ^And so have I. Ah ! she talks quite dif- ^^ 
ferently to him, but as far as the girl is concerned, 
to the devil with her, what I want is her money, and 
like a chromo she goes with it, so if I would get it I 
must first get the girl; money I must have and 
plenty of it, too, or my game is up; then, there is a 
disagreeable chance of my going up, too (on the end 



I 



15 

of a rope) but I must not think of that, it a kind of 
chokes my flow of spirits. 

I wish John would hurry up as I expect that 
pampered brute back every moment. Let me once 
get him away and I will manage to weave such a 
plausible network of guilt around him that he dare 
not return if he could. Oh, here comes some one. 
Sailors, perhaps they are Thompson's. I will just 
step aside until I make sure. [Hides behind rock.'] 

1st Sail. — Come ahead me harties, we are shipped 
for the night, sure, for not a lubber's son of yer can 
slip his cable while the skipper bears hard down on 
the starn. 

2d Sail. — Yer right, mate, luck's agin us to-night, 
and it ain't no use to grumble no how, as I knows 
on. 

\ Enter Count ivitli luig off; speaks to 1st Sail. ] 

Count.— Good evening, gentlemen. 

1st Sail. — The same to yourself, says I. 

Count. — Who is your captain, and w^here can I 
find him? 

1st Sail. — Well, yer honor, as to our captain, his 
name's Thompson, Captain Thompson, E. S. Q, and 
I reckon a better never stood on quarterdeck; bean't 
I right, Bill? 

2d Sail. — Yer right, Jack, 'cepting he's werry 
strict against drinkin'. 

1st Sail. — Yes, werry, wefry. 

Count. — But where is he now? 

1st Sail. — That's wot I wer a comin' ter, sir; you 
will find him astarn, or elst you wouldent find us 
here; ain't I right. Bill? 
2d Sail. — I reckon as how yer be. Jack. 
[^Exit Count.'] 

1st Sail. — Say, Bill, I cant say as how I likes the 
looks of that land shark sort or fellow. 

2d Sail. — No more does I, Jack. 

1st Sail. — He's up to somethin' mean, I wager, 
cos no one ever seed a real gentleman that waid call 
two foremast lads like unto us gentlemen. 

2d Sail. — No, no more they wudent, Jack. 
[Enter other Sailors folloiued by J. Thompson and 

Count.] 



16 

J. Thomp. — All hands attention ! (cries of aye^ 
aye, sir) String out in a line. Now, men, this gen- 
tleman has informed me that one of our new men is 
trying to desert in disguise, and as we are already 
short of hands it would be dangerous to lose one, so 
lie in wait behind these rocks,. until he comes along^ 
as he will soon do. Then, when I order you, all 
hands seize him and bring him aboard the boat. 
Now, then, hide [sailors hide.] Say, Jack Hovey, 
I don't like this work and I am [clouds obscure the 
moon] heartily sorry that I promised to do it; and 
only that Iknow of no other way to save him from 
you, I would back out even now. 

Count.— Hush ! he comes; hide. I will accost 
him, then you seize him from behind [J. T. hides]. 
[Enter Edward.] 

Count. — [disguised] Ah ! dear sir, may I trouble 
you to tell me the way to Tompkinsville? 

Ed. — Certainly, sir; I will show you the way with 
pleasure, as I am going past there now. [Ed. is 
seized from behind, but breaks loose and knocks 
down Count; is again seized and overpoiuered and 
carried off, Count helping and returns with coat.] 

Connt. — [looking through pockets of coat.] Let me 
see what I have here, a bunch of keys and a photo- 
graph of Alice. Ah, I bet they are the keys of the 
safe, for I know that he has charge of them. Yes, 
they will prove of some value to me, and as for that 
[looking at photo], well, I guess I will find some use 
for it. Now for New York. Let me see [looks at 
watch], too late, too late, the last boat will have 
left by the time I could get there; what am I to do? 
Stay here and lose all? No, not without a trial any. 
how. I wonder if- 1 could row up against this ebb 
tide? I will try at any rate. [Exit.] 

Scene Second — Merchants Office. 

[Enter Count.] 

Count.— Ah ! I reckon I've done it pretty neat, and 
I don't think I have been recognized in this disguise; 
now, my boy, you are in for a desperate game, but 



H-:' 



17 

it is not the first by long odds, nor do I want it to 
be my last; but, confound it, that devilish boat took 
up so much time that I will have to work up lively. 
I w^onder w^hat time it is [looks at watcli]. It's now 
half j)ast seven. They don't arrive here before nine; 
that gives me one hour and a half. Well, dearest 
Edward is now out to sea, and I suppose he is quite 
sea sick already, and he is going to marry Alice on 
Christmas, too. Ha, ha, ha! Eather a long voy- 
age for him to start on then. I'm kind of skeared 
there will be some disappointments yet. To the 
arctic regions; rather a cold place, but it may cool 
down his fiery young blood. Well, never mind if 
he does find it rather cold abroad. I will make it 
up by making it red hot for him at home. 

Now for the safe. I do admire these old fashion- 
ed gentlemen, who stick to the good old time safe. 
Safe, because you don't have to injure it to get at 
its contents, [opens safe.] Ah! this is enough to 
make a dead man grin with pleasure [counts 
money'] one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in 
bills and bonds, and one thousand in small bills. 
These I will put in my pocket in case I should need 
change. Now for my trap. I will first write Alice 
a note from dear Edward. I must copy his hand- 
writing [looks in hook and ivrites.] I guess that 
will do it. [Beads.] Dear Alice — Although 
I love you, I love another still better with whom 
I am now going away, so of course I release you 
from your engagement and return you your photo' 
think of me and still love me and if I get tired of 
her (whom I now adore) I will let you know and 
you can come to me. Yours lovingly, Edward 
(puts in photo' and seals envelope). That will 
raise a picnic I bet? 

Now for his coat, that I will leave here, as though 
he had dropped it in a hurry, hark! — what was that; 
can it be some one coming? yes, it is, they are com- 
ing to the door, the money [takes money ^ puts it in 
his hat hurriedly runs to the luindow, puts it up 
and while half out his hat is knocked off by the win- 
dow and falls into room] curses on it, the money [at- 
tempts to get hack hut key is turned in door] Damn 
it, lost, lost. 



18 

[Enter Mr. Ferguson.'] 

Fur.— So Ed. you are ahead of me after all? [looks 
around] what Ed. not here and his ooat on the 
ground, something strange [sees safe open] 
Good Heaven's can it be that I am robbed? 
[goes to telephone] connect to Pinkertons. Send 
good man to Ferguson, commission merchant, 
Broad street. — I am robbed ruined for a second 
time, and those who have trusted in me also 
ruined; poor Ed., this will be a sorry day for him 
also, for to-day he was to have got his partnership 
papers, Oh! what's that [goes to hat] the money, 
yes, the money, thank Heavens I am saved from 
ruin and from ruining others [goes to safe] all here 
except a few hundred dollars. — This is the most 
mysterious thing I ever heard of, I wonder what 
detains Ed. [looks at ivatch] its now half-past eight 
and I have never known him to be after eight, and 
his coat here, that's what mystifies me, to say the 
least, its perfectly unaccountable. I am positive 
that Ed. locked up all safely last night, for if any- 
thing he was too careful, if there is such a thing. 
Why 1 have known him to come back when blocks 
away, if the slightest idea struck him that he had 
not left all perfectly secure. 

[Detective arrives.] 

Det. — Good morning, sir? 

Fer. — Good morning. 

Det.— Your name, sir. 

Fer. — George Ferguson. 

Det. — I am from Pinkerton. 

Fer. — All right, sir : then I will come to business 
at once. There is some mystery which I cannot 
understand. However, when I left last night at 
five, everything was secure ; but when 1 came this 
morning the door was open, and the safe robbed. 

Det. — You arrived at what time [writes]. 

Fer. — At twenty-five minutes past eight exactly. 

Det. — And it is now a quarter to nine. Have you 
disturbed anything since you arrived ? 

Fer.— Nothing, except to look over the contents 
of the safe, to find out what was missing. ^The safe 
was already open. 



19 

Det. — What have you missed ? 

Fer. — The thief or thieves got away with but a 
few hundred dollars, having dropped the rest in an 
old hat, w4iich I found lying by the window, from 
-which I have no doubt they escaped. 

Det. — Have you clerks ? . 

Fer. — Yes, six. 

Det. — Has one full charge, and the keys of the 
safe? 

Fer. — Yes, sir ; his name is Edward St. Leon. 
He lives with me on Staten Island, and to-day he 
was to have been made a full partner. I don't see 
what's ke ping him so late. 

Det. — Have you any reason to suspect him of the 
robbery ? 

Fer. — ^VVhat, Edward ! Heaven forbid ! I would 
trust him with my life. Oh, no, no ! 

Det.— The hat. 

J'er. — [Hands it to Mm.'] Here it is. 

Det. — \ Picks up coat.] Do you recognize any of 
these articles ? 

Fer. — Yes, the coat is Ed's. 

Det.— The hat : is that his ? 

Fer. — No : I don't think that I ever saw it before 
to-day. 

Det. — [Looks in hat.] John T. is in it. Do you 
know who that is ? 

Fer.— No ; I do not. 

Det — I Makes bundle of coat and hat.] Here is a 
letter in the pocket addressed to Miss Alice Pendleton, 
are you acquainted with her ? 

Fer. — Yes, I understand Edward is engaged to 
her, she is the niece of Judge Pendleton, and a 
beautiful young lady she is. 

Det. — Then we had better go to the house. This 
letter may furnish some clue. [Both exit.] 
Scene 3d. [Parlor in Judge Pendleton'' s House. S. I. 

[Seivant shows Fer., Det. and Count into room.] 

Fer. — James, do not announce us until I tell you 
to. 

James. — All right, sir. 

Fer.— My dear Count I am so glad that I met you, 



20 

as there is bad news to be told to the family, and, to 
tell you the truth, I cannot do it. 

Count. — Bad news, Mr. Ferguson, w^hy you shock 
me. I hope that it does not concern the family. 

Fer. — That's the w^orst of it, it does, and I thought 
that you, being a friend of the family, you w^ould 
be more delicate in breaking the unwelcome new^s 
to them, for I could never doit, that I am sure; foul 
work, foul work, somewhere. 

Count. — Yes, Mr. Ferguson, I w^as taking my 
constitutional on the beach when you met me, and 
I am glad that you did, if I can assist you in this 
matter; but I am sorry to hear that it concerns this 
worthy family; pray allow me to ask what the 
trouble is ? 

Fer. — True, dear Count, I forgot that I had not 
told you, but, but, well to save my life I do not 
kuow how to explain it — Mr., 

Det. — Eogers. 

Fer. — Well, Mr. Rogers, please explain the case 
to this gentleman. 

Det. — Mr. Ferguson's office has been robbed and 
there is no clue to the thieves except this hat and 
coat, also a letter addressed to Miss Alice Pendleton. 

Count. — Believe me, gentlemen, I am very sorry, 
very sorry, indeed, to think that Edward should do 
such a thing; this will break poor Alice's heart, and 
he engaged to marry her on Christmas. [Det. 
watches Count shajyly.'] 

Fer. — Marry her on Christmas; when did you 
hear that ? 

Count. — Oh, I heard it; that is — I did not exactly 
hear it, but I was led to suppose it, by his bearing 
towards her. 

Fer. — \^Loo'ks at Count sharply.'] Strange. 

Count. — Yes, very strange; I xlon't see what 
could have tempted him to do such a thing. 

Fer. — Edward never did it, take my w^ord for it ; 
he was not that kind of man: but supposing he was, 
what motive could he have for doing it, as he would 
have been made partner to-day? 

Count. — Why the letter explains his motive. 

Fer.— Does it ? ^ 



21 



Count. — Yes; does it not? 

Fer. — I am not aware that it does, as it is a sealed 
letter addressed to Miss Alice Pendleton, and I am 
not acquainted with its contents. 

Count. — Oh, I did not know that. 

Fer. — James, inform the Jud^e and Miss Alice 
that we are here and wish to see them at their con- 
venience. 

Fer. — I tell you. Count, to speak plain, there is 
some dark villainy afloat, you may depend upon it, 
and Ed. is the victim. 

[Enter Judge and Alice.] 

Judge. — Good morning, gentlemen. 

Fer. — Mr. Rogers, Judge. 

Judge. — Happy to meet you, Mr. Eogers. 

Fer. — We do not feel much pleasure in visiting 
you this morning. Judge, as we have disagreeable 
news, especially for Miss Alice. 

Count. [Sigh.s.~\ — Yes, indeed, disagreeable. 

Judge. — Something wrong, eh? 

Al. — Yes, yes^ I can see it by your faces. Oh, tell 
me what it is. 

Fer. — There, now, Alice dear, calm yourself; it 
will all come out right yet, I am sure. 

Al. — What will? Oh, what is wrong? 

Fer. — ^Count^ please explain, but make it easy, 
make it easy. 

Count. — Everything, Miss AUce, ever3^thing is 
wrong. 

Al. — Is it concerning Edward? 

Fer. — Yes, that is kind of; there now, Alice, my 
girl, don't look so grieved. Oh, I can't tell her. 

Judge. — What trouble about Edward? Not dan- 
gerously ill, I hope. 

Fer. — No, no. 

Count. — Worse, worse. 

Al. — What, worse! For Heaven's sake, do not 
tell rae he is dead. 

Fer. — No, Alice, no. 

Count. — Oh, no, but it would be better if he were. 
Mr. Ferguson has been robbed, and — and — I cannot 
tell it to Miss Alice. 

Det. — And suspicion points to Edward, his clerk. 



22 

Al. — Oh, no, 'tis false. Mr. Ferguson, you surely 
do not believe such a thing; that Edward, so truth- 
ful, so noble hearted, would stoop to steal. It is too 
ridiculous; 'tis some vile plot to injure him, by 
some cowardly enemies. But w^ait until he comes,, 
and I will stake my life that he will put his shame- 
less accusers to the blush, if they have so much 
sense of shame left in their traitorous breasts. 

[Det hands letter addressed to Alice. \ Oh ! a let- 
ter, heaven be praised. This, then, wall explain 
everything satisfactorily. \_She reads, drops letter 
and faints; Det catches her.] 

[Judge picks letter up and reads.] 

Judge.— Gentlemen, this is some rascally conspir- 
acy against Edward ; for; believe me, he is a high- 
minded noble youth, incapable of anything deroga- 
tory to a gentleman. 

Count. — Yes, Judge ; but you forget that he's a 
thief. 

Fer. — And you're a damned scoundrel [knocking 
him doivn.] 

Judge. — And this letter is a forgery. 

Tableau. 



ACT II. 



Scene First. Arctic Regions-^ Icebergs; Ship in dis- 
tance near berg. 

[Enter Ed. and Old Tom, the Boatswain.] 

Ed. — Well, Tom, this is pretty hard luck — if you 
can call it luck, — first seized by mistake as a sailor 
and carried off to sea without even so much as a 
word of explanation to those I. left behind; then jV 
getting caught in the ice, with no prospect of ever 's 

getting out for months to come, if we ever get out 
at all; then, as if our cup of misery was not full, 
we are short of provisions, with half the men down 
v^ith scurvy, and with but a slim chance of our 
bettering their condition with any fresh meat which 



23 

we can procure. To say the least, the prospect be- 
fore us is not very mviting. 

Tom. — Lor' bless you, sir, you'r right; no doubt, 
but if as how you'd allow an old hulk like me, 
wats tossed in many a sea, weathered many a gale 
and generally com'd out about right, to give yer a 
bit of ad wise. 

Ed. — Certainly, friend, and thank you for it, too. 

Tom. — Then I'll heave ahead till I cum ter anchor 
longside. My adwise, which is, "in the midst of 
perwersity keep a stiff upper lip." 

Ed. — Thanks, my friend, thanks; but it is not for 
myself that I grieve, but for those whom I have left 
behind me (perhaps forever) without even a good-bye 
word for those I love best on earth. Tom, I dare 
not think of it or I should go distracted. I hope 
you will not think meanly of me for giving wa}^ to 
my feelings, but although I try to bear it like a 
man, I cannot but feel it like a man. 

Tom. — Ah, sir, I kin feel fur yer there, as I knows 
what it is myself. I left one ons't too. She werent 
wery young, nor may be not as wot yer might call 
purty, but she were good to me, and, in my old 
eyes, wery purty, indeed. I left her ons't. an it 
were ons't too often, fer it wer forever [luipes eyes 
ivith sleeve']. I didn't know it at the time, bnt wen 
I cumed home to the little cottage, where I left her, 
she weren't there, and them as wer, wer strangers 
to me, and they told me as how my poor wife, 
Betsey, were dead and buried, and as how her last 
words wer: Poor Tom, tell him as not to forget me, 
fur I will always watch over him, until we meet in 
Heaven. Then she left a kiss for me, as wot, of 
course, I didn't git. Then she died. This cold air, 
sir, makes my old eyes wery watery. 

Ed. — Poor fellow, I am, indeed, very sorry for 
you. I see that you have had your own share of 
troubles in this world; but, Tom, life at the best is 
short, and, when your time comes to leave, think of 
the happiness and joy it will be to you to meet your 
dear wife once more, never, never to part. Yes, 
Tom, you must, indeed, have missed your good wife 
greatly. 



24 

To m.^ Yes, sir, yer right I did; but, Lor' bless 
yer, I never expects, as an qld hulk like me, would 
ever be allowed in such a glorious place as wot 
Betsey said Heaven wer. No, no, it couldent be; 
all I ever asks is, to be allowed a glimpse, now and 
then, a sort of a look in, as it wer, to git a sight of 
my dear Betsey. 

Ed. — Did you say that you never expected to go 
to Heaven, Tom? 

Tom. — Oh, Lord bless yer, sir, I never expects to, 
cause when I wer young, and orter been good. I wer 
wild, and everything that werent good, and now, 
when I've got old, it seems ter me as wot it wer a 
worry mean sort of thing to try to pass off as good. 
No, no, I'm too w;icket, 

Ed. — Too wicked; did, did you commit any very 
great crime — robbery or murder? 

Tom. — Oh, no; I never dun no one no harm as I 
knows on, but I dident go to church when I orter. 

Ed. — Well, Tom, I am glad to hear that it is no 
worse, athough, of course, you did very wrong in 
neglecting your church ; but there is still hope for 
you, for you know that our Saviour died for all sin- 
ners, and if you sincerely repent your sins, and ask 
for mercy, you will certainl}^ be forgiven; but when 
we return to the ship I will explain some of the 
Bible to you, if you would like it. 

Tom. — Like it ; why. Lord bless yer, dear sir, I 
don't know no way as how I can thank yer enough ; 
yer have made my old heart gladder ter day ner it 
has bin since poor Betsey died. She wer abvers trying 
ter lead me, but, yer see, I wer young, and didn't 
walue it then; but if yer will be so kind as ter teach 
me, I will never forgit it, sir. 

Ed. — I won't forget to teach you, Tom ; but here 
comes the Captain with Jasper. [Enter Cap. J. ^ 
Thomp^ and Jasper Johnson. ^^ ^^ 

J. Thomp. — Well, men, did you have the luck to 
come across any game ? 

Ed. — No, Captain, I have not seen the sign of any 
as yet, but I think we had better try in another 
direction ; have you had any luck, Captain ? 

J. Thomp. — No, I have not ; but it won't do to 



25 

give up yet; we must find fresh meat of some kind, if 
nothing more than a fox or two. In fact, our lives 
depend upon it, for nearly half the crew are now 
down with the scurvy, and in a few days more, 
without we can get some relief, even the strongest 
among us will have to succumb to that deadly foe, 
leaving nothing but our whitened bones to tell our 
fate. 

Jas. — Captain. 

J. Thomp. — Well, what is it, Jasper? 

Jas. - If'er, if 'er we don't find something dat is 
game or somthin. will we, will 

J. Thomp.— Will what ? 

Jas. — Will we hab to draw chances to see who's 
ter be eat ? 

J. Thomp. — [Smiling.'] Certainly, certainly; why 
not? 

Jas. — I spose ebery body knows nigger no good, 
not fit ter eat ; fact is, Captain, dem wots tried it 
says nigger's wus ner pison. 

J. Thomp. — Well, Jasper, one nigger, you know, 
wouldn't be much among the whole crew, and 
when the amount is so small the stronger it is the 
better, I should think. But don't be so skared, 
Jasper ; you might not be the party drawn to be 
eaten. 

Jas. — Oh, Captain, dem white folks would be sure 
to put up a job on dis poor colored child. 

Ed. — Look! look! Captain, there must be some- 
thing wrong with the ship; there seems to be a 
great commotion on board. 

J. Thomp.— Yes, there goes a signargun for our 
return; what can be the matter? 

Ed. — Look! look! For Heaven's sake, the ice- 
bergs. 

Tom.— They are breaking up, Captain. 

J. Thomp. — Yes, yes; that's it. Good God! will 
they never get the ship clear? Come, men, what 
are we doing here. Come, come, I say; our ship's 
our life. [Berg breaks.] What! [Breaks again 
and sinks ship.] Too late; too late. My God, we 
are all lost; our doom is sealed. [Staggers.] 

Ed. — Captain, Captam, let us hasten over; per- 
haps we may succeed in saving some of our friends. 



26 

Tom. — It aren't no use, Ed. ; it would take us more 
nor an hour to git there, and they wer killed in- 
stantly. God forgive um ther sins! 

Ed. — But some might still live. 

J. Thomp.— No, it is of no use; they are all lost — 
sank v^ith the ship, our only home, down to the 
bottom of the Arctic Ocean. Oh! would to Heaven 
we had all sunk with her, for a far worse fate 
awaits us. 

Ed. — No, Captain; remember, ''while there is 
life there is hope." 

Tom. — And that's wot I says, Captain, "in the 
midst of perwersity keep a stiff upper lip." 

Jas. — I dun think, as Massa Tom knows, what 
he's talking bout. Who eber hered ob a stiff upper 
lip saving any body? 

J. Thomp. — Ah! my friends, you know not of 
what you are talking. We are lost beyond recov- 
ery for ever; we cannot «ave our lives. Let us, 
then, make our peace with God and try to save our 
souls. 

Ed. — Captain, it is our duty to both God and man 
to try to preserve our lives. 

Jas. [^Looking shared.'] — Puiserve us; dis chile 
don wunt to be pickled. 

Tom.^ — Yer right, Ed. Yes, Captain, he's right. 

Ed. — Captain, how far are we from the nearest 
place that we can reckon on for help? 

J. Thomp. — I am not quite sure, as I have no 
chart; but it is all of six hundred miles, and it 
might as well be six thousand, for we could never 
reach there. No, it's worse than useless to move a 
step. Here we can stop until we die; by trying to 
save ourselves we but prolong our misery. 

Jas. — Oh, Lor. I doesn't want to leaf my bones 
to whiten here. I sooner take um wid me, even if 
dey is black, 

Ed. —God helps those who help themselves, so 
while we have life let us struggle like men. 

Tom. — Them ere's my sentiments too. 

Jas. — If ever I sees home again, dats all de sea 
dat /ever wants. 

J. Thomp. — Well, comrades, if you wish to try, 



27 

let us start, this is the way. May God in His mercy 
help us. 

Ed. — Amen. 

Tom. — Aye, aye, sir. 

[All exit.'] 

Scene 2nd — Flat of Snowy Rocks. 
[Enter Captain and Ci^ew.] 

J. Thomp. — I think that it is useless, men, we 
can never hold out, we are only killing ourselves in 
a more painful manner : it's death, death, stares us 
in the face, look where we will. 

Ed. — Oh, Alice ! I cannot die without seeing your 
dear face again. I must, I will live. 7, for one, 
will keep on while there is a breath in my body. 

Jas. — [Jumping around, shrieking.'] Look, look ! 
glory to de Lord. [All rush over.] 

J. Thomp. — Footsteps, footsteps, at last there is 
help. 

Tom. — Captain, it sorter strikes me that we 
cumed by this very place once afore, more ner three 
days ago. 

J. Thomp. — What, man ; what would you say? 
Are you a friend to dash our last ray of hope aside? 

Ed. — Our own footsteps, we must have travelled 
in a circle. Oh, what a weary journey for nought ! 
Three day's incessant toil to find ourselves back in 
the same accursed spot. Oh ! Heavens ! is there no 
help? 

Jas. — Yes, sure dars my footsteps, dass no mis- 
taken dem. [Cap faints.] 

Ed. — It is useless continuing the struggle, every- 
thing is against us, our fate seems sealed. Oh, 
Alice ! must I then give up all hope of ever seeing 
your dear face on earth again ? Yes. I must indeed 
say a long good-bye, my dearest one, for ever. 

Tom. — Ed., my friend, remember, "in the midst 
of perversity keep a stiff upper lip." 

Jas. — Dat's easy enuf. Ise stiff all ober and I 
don't feel so berry good; de stiff er I gets, de worser 
I feels. Tom, is the top of my nose white, cos if it 



28 

is I'se frozed. Oh, if I cud only seed a fire eben, de 
sight of one wud warm me, or eben a little fire water. 

Tom. — Captain, if as how I might make so free, I 
think if we steered straight ahead instead of turning 
to larboard as we did, w^e would be steering on the 
right course. 

J. Thomp. [springs up excitedly^. — I have a mis- 
sion to fulfill. I must keep on. Follow me to life 
or death. [Exit.'] 

Ed. — I'm afraid the captain's sufferings have 
affected his head. Come, men, we must follow and 
watch hira that no harm befalls him. 

Jas. — Well, Massa Ed and Tom, you go ahead. I 
must take a little sleep, I muss [gapes']. I can't keep 
dees here eyes open nohow. I will catch up wid 
yoQ arter I takes a little nap [gapes']. 

Tom. — No, no, man; that ere wud be the sleep of 
death; you wud never wake again. You musent 
sleep nohow, man; you must rouse yourself up. 

Ed. — Come, come, we must not lose sight of the 
captain. Tom, lake one arm of Jasper's and I will 
take the other until he shakes off this drowsiness. 
[Exit.'] 

Scene 3d. — Open ice and bergs; seals in distance. 
[Enter all, straggling and staggering,] 

Jas. [blubbering]. — Oh, Lor! oh, Lor! if I had eben 
a single red hot coal in dis chile's stomach I tinks it 
would melt a little of de ice dar, If ebber I Fees a 
fire agin, eider dat fire gits frozed or I gits thawed, 
for I'll nebber leave till one or the udder happens. 

J Thomp. — I'm afraid, Ed, that the fox you shot 
yesterday has only prolonged our misery instead of 
preserving our lives. 

Ed.- Courage, captain; don't give up yet. God in 
his mercy may have our rescue near at hand. 

J. Thomp. — No, no, Ed; that is impossible. 

Ed. — To God nothing is impossible, and no man 
knows what to-morrow may bring forth. 

Tom. — Yes, Ed, that is very true, and Look! 

seals, seals; there's food! 

J. Thomp.— Food! who said it, who said food? 



29 

Oh, give me it, oh, give me something to eat! I 
am starving! 

Ed. — Oh, that I could but use this now useless 
gun, we might now procure food to keep hfe in us 
for further trial. 

Tom. — I have the powder and shot, Ed. 

Ed. — Yes, but have you a gun cap ? 

Al.— No, no. 

E.d — Don't say no; look again, search your clothes 
well. 

Jas.— Here's one, massa Ed; here's one. 

Ed.— Who will fire ? 

All. — You, you are the best shot. 

Ed. — Then Heaven guide my aim. [Aims, slips 
in hole, gun snaps ; all groan. ^^ The cap is off, look 
for it. [They look through snoiv in box.'] Look care- 
fully, [donH find it,] look, men, look. 

Tom. — What's that 'ere thing on your glove? 

Ed. — The cap, the cap. [Puts on gun again.] 

Tom. — Hurry Ed., fire they are moving. 

E. — I can't friends; lam too unfortunate. 

J. Thomp. — [Springs up.] Then /will, give me 
gun, give it to me. [Takes it aivay, aims at random 
hut hits seal, rest jump into the water leaving the 
wounded one struggling ; the men start toivard it, 
but it rolls into water.] Ha ! ha ! I told you. 

Jas. — Oh, Lord ! Oh, Lord ! dar goes my dinner, 
afore I tasted it, eben. 

J. Thomp.— Well, men, if you still insist on living; 
there is nothing for it but to draw chances, and see 
who shall die that the rest may live. 

Ed. — No, no. Captain ; we will never come to that; 
we will struggle on so long as we have strength, re- 
lying on God's protection, then having lived like 
men, when our Heavenly Father decrees our time 
has come, we will try to die like men with faith in 
our hearts, and not like wild beasts devouring each 
other. 

Tom. — Them ere's my sentiments, just like as 
how my poor Betsey wud have said, if she wer 
here. 

J. Thomp.- -Yes, yes ;you'r right, men; I'masham- 



30 

ed of myself for beiiig the first to despair; we will 
try to perform om^ daty to the last — as you say. 
[Eater Captain Morton, with sailors.] 

[All rush tip to them, asking are you wrecked, too? 
have you a boat, &c.f] 

Cap. IVE, No, friends; we are not wrecked. 

J. Thomp. — Oh ! who are you, and have you a 
vessel ? 

Cap. M. — I am Captain Morton, and I own the 
steam sloop lying behind those bergs: I came here 
for whales, but having had very poor luck, and the 
winter coming on, I made up my mind to sail to- 
day; but who are you, and where from, my friends? 

J. Thomp. — ^I am John Thompson, Captahi of the 
Sea Griill, and thesa are the remnant of my crew. 

Cap. M. — But Where's your vessel? 

7. Thomp. — At the bottom of the ocean, with 
nearly all of my crew on board ; crushed and sunk 
by an iceberg, in an instant, while we were on 
shore. Since which we have w^andered around 
without food, I know not how long. 

Cap. M. —Poor fellows, I am indeed glad that I 
have met you; Providence must have guided you 
here, for if you had been a few hours later, my ves- 
sel would have been gone, and you must have per- 
ished. I was in the act of giving orders preparing 
for our departure, when I heard the gun and voices, - 
so I came on shore to see who it was. But while I 
am talking, perhaps you are starving. I think I 
have a few biscuits, which I put in my pocket this 
morning, as I was going shooting, but suddenly 
making up my mind to sail to-day, I didn't go, 
[while speaking takes out biscuits and divides them^ 
they eagerly devour them | they are rather dry, but 
you appear to have good appetites. 

J as. — Golly, appetite; I tink I'se notink else ner 
one big appetite. 

Cap.M — [Takes out flask and pours out little and 
hands to each.] This drop of brandy will take 
away your faintness; poor fellows, you shall soon 
have plenty as soon as you get aboard, but where 
do you belong? 

J. Thomp. — New York is where we started from 



31 

and should have returned to, had we not been 
wrecked. 

Cap. M. — Well, men, as I told you I sail to-day, 
as I made, very liitle oil here. I am going to the Afri- 
can coast for Palm Oil and from there to Eng- 
land. If you choose to go with me 1 will put you 
on board the first vessel we meet; bound for New 
York, if you desire it. 

J. Thomp. — I can assure you that both 1 and my 
men are deeply grateful to you for your kindness, 
for we were nearly exhausted from fatigue and 
starvation when Heaven sent you to our rescue. 

Cap. M.^1 am thankful that 1 was the humble 
means of saving you; but let us to the ship that you 
may get the food of which you are in so much need. 
[Enter luife and daughter tuith sailor]. Oh! my 
wife and my daughter. [Wife starts when she sees 
Ediuard, and tvatches him.] 

J. Thomp. — What! brhig ladies with you here? 

Cap. M. — Yes; I have them by me always. My 
wife suffered a great affliction, and by her own 
desire she and our daughter accompany me wher- 
ever I go. Oh! there must be a storm coming up; 
see! the ice is moving. [Distant sounds of ice break- 
ing]: 

Kate [daughter]. — Oh! father! what a grand sight 
it must be, if you were only close enough? Can 1 
not go to yonder rising ground to have a better 
view ? 

Cap. M. — Yes, Kate, if you are careful. Ben, [to 
sailor] you had better go with her, to see that she 
keeps out of danger. Now, Kate, you must come 
back directly you take a look, as I want to return to 
the ship at once. 

Kate. — Yes, father; I won't detain you a minute. 
[Kate and sailor ivalto over to high ground in middle 
of stage]. 

Cap. M. [to 2nd sailor]. — Jim, go back to the ship 
as fast as your legs can carry you, and tell the cook 
to get up a good dinner just as quick as he possibly 
can, as I have company back with me. 

2nd Sailor. — Aye. aye, sir [running off]. 

Jas. — Oh! Now I looks forward to a good square 



32 

meal, good and warm, too, fur sure. Golly, Massa 
Tom, who wLid tink dat a mancoud feel so starving: 
when he had an ice breakfast, dinner and supper 
ebery day, only dat dey was rader cool for my in- 
digestion. 

\_The noise of the ice has been gettiny nearer-]. 

AIL— Hark! [Loud reports of ice breaking]. 

[Ice begins to break; women scream; confusion 
all around]. 

1st Sail. — Good Heaven! we are lost. [Seems to 
loose his senses; das lies over the ice screaming, save 
yourselves; lie falls through and is lost]. 

Kate— Help! help! Father! Mother! Oh, God! must 
I die herein sight of all. [They hold Father back; 
he struggles]. 

Cap. M. — Leave me go, fiends! I say, release' 
me! Curse you, let me go! Will I see my child die 
before my eyes without one struggle to save her? 

[Ed. and Jas. rush up, Jas. falls back, Ed. gets 
over and siezes Kate, returning with her in his 
arms.] 

All. — Keep back! Keep back! You can't get over. 

Ed. — But I will in spite of all on earth [comes up 
on last piece with Kate, all cheer, rush, and help. 
Kate and mother rush to each others arms. Cap. 
M. embraces Ed. Aurora shines out. Curtain 
drops, rises to encore, Aurora going, tableau.] Now 
for the ship and freedom. 

Jas. — And warm grub. 



ACT III. 

Scene 1st. Stage set with moving tvater and steam- 
ship in distance, bearing doivn to footlights, terrific 
storm takin place, thunder, wind and lightning, 
wind blows sails loose, lightning strikes ship. 

[Curtain d7^ops and ibises quickly] on scene 2nd. 

Vessel in foreground R. partly sunk; crew rush- 
ing around. 

Cap. M. — All hands to lower the yawl boat, look 



33 

alive there men, look alive, we have not a moment 
to lose. 

Crew. — Aye, aye, sirt 

Cap. M.— Cut the halyards, work for your lives 
men, for delay means death. 

Ed. — ■[^Ciits halyards ivith ax] Captain, she's afloat. 

Cap. M. — Man her then, quick, quick. 

Crew. — Aye, aye, sir. 

J. Thomp.— Boat's all read.y. Captain, pass the 
ladies. 

Cap. M. — Come Kate, my girl, you get in first, 
mother will follow you. 

J. Thomp. — [Seizes Kate and drags her back] 
Back all, back with you, for your lives, here comes 
a mountain w^ave. [Spray flies up, big noise, all 
screaming. ] 

Cap. M. — Keep her off below [all run to side], 

J. Thomp. — Good God, she has sunk. 

Cap. M. — And all hands with her ; come quick, 
for heavens sake, there is but once chance left, and 
that is the life raft, but it will not hold up all. 

Ed. — Captain you take the ladies, I for one will 
remain. 

J. Thomp. — And I [rest, and J]. 

Cap. M. — No, men; our vessel will not float three 
minutes longer, and to remain is death. No, I will 
not accept your sacrifice ; no, we must try some- 
thing else. 

J. Thomp. — Some wreckage and form a raft, 
Captain. 

Cap. M. — Yes, friends, that's the way, we will 
fasten some wreckage to the life raft; quick, cut 
away the mast [some begin to cut away mast] 
fasten a hawser to the life raft and launch her. 
Now, lads, some of you out on to her, aye, aye, 
sir. 

[Tom and Jasper go on to her.] Clear the rigging, 
look out, all right below, aye, aye, sir, then over 
with it [mast goes over] lash her to the raft, now, 
then pass the women, look sharp [women go over]. 
All hands over, for I feel her settling. 

Ed. — You first. Captain. 

Cap. M. — No, I am Captain. I leave last [all go 



34 

over\ Push off, push off, she's sinking [ship sinks, 
all dark, thunder, wind, etc.; lightning flashes , storm 
subsides, daylight begins to appear]. 

Mrs. M. — Father, are we far from land? 

Capt. M. — No, we can't be very far now, but I 
cannot tell where we may be carried to. 

Tom.— Captain, I think as I hear breakers. 

Kate — Yes, father, Tom is right, I also hear the 
roar of the surf and its getting louder. 

Cap- M. — Yes, yes, I hear it now, we are near 
land, but it may prove to be a new danger to us. 
Oh, if it w^ere only getting light. 

Ed. — It is getting lighter, Captain; we will soon 
be able to see. 

Jas. — Land ahoy! 

Capt. M. — Where away? 

Ed.— There! There! 

Cap. M. — Yes, you are right; if we can but round 
that point we will be on a lee shore and can safely 
land, but if w^e keep on as we are going I am afraid 
we will drift into that surf, and be dashed to pieces 
on the rocks. The point is not more than a cable's 
length away, and our only chance is to get a line 
ashore, or this wind will soon drive us past the 
point. 

Ed.— I will carry a rope ashore, captain. 

Tom. — No, allow me, wats used ter it, fur beggin' 
yer honor's pardin, I thinks as how I'm the best 
swimmer, and, if I arent, why I aint of much wal- 
ley, anyhow, so I will go. 

J. Thomp. — Tom speaks true, he is the best swim- 
mer- here, let him try and if he don't succeed, I will 
a.iempt to reach there. 

Cap. M. — You are a brave man Tom and I pray 
that you may succeed. 

Tom — Thankee Captain, thankee, but don't you be 
aferad on me, for in the micist of perwersity 1 allers 
keeps a stiff upper lip [goes over, shark appears, 
all cry shark, sharks &c]. 

J. Thomp. — Back Tom, back for your life, ashark, 
my God he will be seized, how slow he moves, hurry 
Tom, hurry [they go to pidl him out, but shark bites 
off leg, all scream, biz.] 



35 

Tom. — Captain, I hope you'll excuse me for fail- 
ing as I hadn't orter, but see as how that wona- 
cious shark shattered my timbers, I could'nt help 
it. 

Jas.— I will go Captain, I ain't 'fraid of sharks, 
give me a knife [inits a knife in Ms mouth], look out 
shark I'se coming, I'se shark myself, I'se shark deb- 
ble [jumps over']. 

Tom. — Now, ladies, please don't take on so that 
way, cans I arent one as was ever used to it, and I 
never felt so content like as wot I feels now. I will 
be all right in a day or two, that scratch on my led 
will soon be all right. Ed Ed., please ter kinder 
Sjraighten out my led, fur it feels a sort of cramped 
[_Ed. fixes it], no not that one, the other [they look 
at him surprised.] Is some of the bones broken — is 
they? 

Jas. — All right Captain, all right, Ise got her 
fast. 

Cap. M. — Thank God for our timely deliverance. 

Curtain. 



ACT IV. 

Scene 1st.: Tropical flat. 

[Enter crowd hearing Tom on a litter]. 

Tom. — Easy mates, easy, let me rest here 
awhile. 

Ed. — Poor Tom, how he must suffer, poor fellow. 

Tom. — Ah! I feels as how I've made my worry last 
cruise. 

J. Thomp. — Don't say that Tom, we can't spare 
such a good, faithful man. 

Tom. — Thankee Captain, thankee, but it arent of 
my desire I leave you, although I shouldent ort to 
say as I warent satisfied to go when God calls on me 
ter. 

Mrs. M. — This is only a faint spell, my poor man, 
and with a little careful nursing, which we will do 



36 

all in our power to give you. I am sure you will 
soon get well. 

Tom. — Ah, mum, I'm sorry as to differ with a 
lady, but Lor' bless yer, I feels as how I am going 
worry, worry soon. This old hulk aren't no- good 
no more anyhow. 

Kate. — Poor Tom, is there anything that we can 
do for you? 

Tom. — Aye, mum, begging your ladyship's par- 
don; I wishes to speak to Mr. Ed., to axe him a 
question. 

Ed. — Here I am, Tom. What is it you wish, my 
dear brave friend? 

Tom.- — Captain Morton, you be a bit of- a doctor, 
and don't yer think my cable's nearly run? 

Cap. M. — Yes, Tom; there is no use in disguising 
the fact. I am sorry indeed to have to say it, but 
— we must soon part. So if you have anything on 
your mind that you want to tell, or any favor to 
ask, do so at once, and make your peace with God. 

Tom.— Yes, captain. I feel as wot yer say is 
true. Ed, my boy, give me yer hand. 

Ed. — Here, Tom. Here. 

Tom. — Unhitch my belt and hand it here. 

Ed. — Here it is, Tom. 

Tom. — Open it, Ed, and hand wot's in it to Cap- 
tain Thompson. 

Ed. — Yes, Tom, yes. [^Hands something rolled up 
to captain.] 

Cap. M. — Well, Tom, I am sorry to tell you it, but 
you must spin a short yarn, as you have not long 
to live. 

Tom.— I feel it, captain; I feel it. Wot I would 
say is this ere: the package wot Mr. Ed handed to 
Captain Thompson contains a locket which wer fas- 
tened on the neck of a child which we picked up on 
the ocean, on a piece of wreck. There weren't no 
clue as to who he were, and there being a French 
woman and her husband on board as took quite a 
fancy to the wee little thing, our captain gave it to 
them to bring up; but they was to tell it how they 
cummed by it, if so be as how it lived to grow up; 
but soon after they left the ship at France with it, 



' 37 

I found this ere locket, which had dropped off it 
one day and was given up as lost. Ed. 

Ed.— Yes, Tom. 

Tom. — A mouthful of water, please? 

Jas. — Let me go for it, I'se done notink for poor 
Massa Tom \_rims after it]. 

Tom. — Aye, poor Jasper; I had nig:h forgotten 
him, poor lad, his face are black, but his heart are 
in the right place. [Enter Jas.] 

Jas. — Here, poor Massa Tom, driak [drinks]. 

Tom. — Thankee, Jasper my boy, thankee. 

Jas. — Don't speak 'bout it, Tom [blubbers]. 

Tom. — I aren't used to bein' ashore much, so I 
have always ter wet my whistle; well, captain, as I 
were a saying, soon after the French folks left the 
ship, I found that there locket, and I have ever since 
tried to find 'em to give it to them, for the young 
one's sake, 'cause it had two pictures inside and 
some letters outside on it; but all as wot I could 
learn on, was as they'd* left for America, and being 
as how my cruise is nearly run, I want to give it to 
whoever will promise to keep up the seach. 

Ed. — Tom, Tom, the name of the French people, 
wasn't St. Leon, was it? 

Tom. — Yes, but it were Ed, it were. 

Ed. — And the vessel that saved the child, was — 

Tom. — The " Benefactoress." 

Ed.— And the initials? 

Tom.— Ther wot, Ed? 

Ed.— The letters on the locket were " E. M." 

Tom. — Yes, yes. 

Ed.— Then, Tom, I was that child. 

Tom. — You, Ed I then thank God as how I've 
found yer. 

J. Thomp. — Here Ed. is your is your locket then. 

'Ed.—lOpeiis locket.] Then these minatures must 
be of my dear parents. Oh! if I could only clasp 
that dear mother to my heart, and hear her sweet 
voice, even for a moment; but alas! I can never, 
never see her on earth. 

Mrs. M.— Let me look [Ed. gives her the locket.] 
Oh! heaven, can it be, do I see aright; yes, my 
God! it is, my son, my darling son, come to your 
mother's arms. 



38 

Ed. — Mother, oh dearest mother, is this some 
heavenly dream, or is it possible that my fondest 
hopes are reahzed? 

Cap. M.— Mother, what is this? 

Mrs. M. — The locket which was your wedding 
gift to me, and which was around our child's neck 
when we were separated in the wreck, is now re- 
turned with my darling bo v. 

Cap. M.— What can this" be, Tom— Tom? 

Tom. — Aye, aye, sir; it be sure as death. 

Cap. M. — Where did you pick up this child? 

Tom. — On the Atlantic, close on half ways be- 
tween Ameriky and France. 

Mrs. M. — Yes, my heart whispered this to me 
when first I saw you, for it seemed your father 
stood before me in his youth again. 

Cap. M. — Wait, mother, one moment, until we 
are sure; how long is it since you picked up this 
child? Tom, do you remember? 

Tom. — Aye, aye. Captain, I do that; next month 
it would be just twenty-two years. 

Cap. M- — We lost our child .then and he had this 
locket on his neck. 

J. Thomp. — There can be no doubt, Captain, but 
that Edward is your son. 

Cap. M. — Yes, yes, he is indeed Edward my 
son. [Mutual embrace betiveen Ed. and father and 
Kate, his sister.] 

Kate. — Oh, Edward! my dear, dear, brave broth- 
er, who, at the risk of your own life saved me from 
a fearful death. Oh, how joyful it makes my heart 
to see dear mother and father made so happy, their 
gi'eat sorrow suddenly turned to bliss. 

Mrs. M. — Father, look! See your picture. [Shows 
locket] its our son's very image. [Embraces Ed. 
again.] Oh, God! give me strength to bear so much 
happiness! 

[Tom groans. All rush to Mm.] 

Ed. — Oh, Tom, forgive me my selfishness for for- 
getting you in my own happiness, and all through 
your means, too, dear Tom. 

Tom. — Don't mention it, Ed., it makes me old 



39 

heart weiy, wery glad; now wot I had to do is did, 
and I can die happy, Ed. 

Ed. — Well, dear, good friend, what is it? 

Tom. — Come here, my boy, let me see you onst 
afore I dies. [Ed. sits in front of him and takes his 
hand.] 

Ed. — No, Tom, you must not die, I will 

Tom. — Its no use, as how I'de fight agin it for I 
knows my times cum, but I've did my duty as far 
as I know'don, and can now die happy. Ah, Ed. It's 
now nearly twenty-two years ago that I carried you 
from the wreck (where I first spied yer) to our ship, 
and yer put yer little chubby arms around of my 
neck and laughed and crowed and called me papa, 
all of which made me wery happy to think as how 
any one loved me so, even though it were one as was 
too young ter know better, and now to think, to-day 
I gives 3'er back to your father and mother agin. 

Ed. — Yes, my faithful, true-hearted friend, I can- 
not find words to thank you, but your own kind 
heart knows how mine feels. 

Tom. — No thanks, Ed., no thanks; it were only 
my dooty, and I only wish as how I coud do it agin 
for yer, which, of course, that is sunthin as wot I 
can't, Ed., where are you? 

Ed. — Here I am, Tom; here I am. 

Tom. — Yes, I feel yer, Ed, but I can't see yer, all 
is getting so dark; my time's getting short; give me 
yer hand, Ed. 

Ed. — Here it is, Tom, my dear, dear friend. 

Tom. — Ed, does 3^er think as there is any chance 
of heaven for me? I've prayed very hard to the 
Lord to have mercy on me. 

Ed. — Yes, my dear, true friend, through your re- 
pentance and our Savior's sacrifice, the loving and 
merciful God will indeed receive you, dear old Tom, 
into Heaven. 

Tom. — Ah, Ed, you as I loves so, has made me 
die wery, wery happy; friends all pra}^ for me. I'm 
fast agoing. Ah, its getting lighter. Theix's Betsy 
a calling ter me. I must go ter her. I'm coming, 
I'm coming. Good-bye, friends; good-bye. Ed, 
Ed, boy, I sees the glorious place [Dies.] 



40 

J. Thomp. — He's dead, poor Tom; he was as fine 
a sailoi' as ever trod a deck, but he's shpped his cable 
at last. Jasper is now all that is left of my once 
fine crew. 

Cap. M. — Yes, it is only too true; poor, honest, 
faithful Tom; he is dead, poor fellow; although but 
a poor sailor, he was, indeed, a nobleman by nature, 
and all that we can now do for him is to bury him 
by the sea he loved so well; let us, my friends, find 
some pretty s^^ot near the sea, where there is a palm 
tree to shelter his grave; there let us bury and pray 
for him, hoping that when our own time comes, we 
may be as fit to go as poor Tom was [exit carrying 
Tom, li'omen crying]. 

Scene 2d. {Cut Tropical Wood Scene. Numbers 
of monkeys gliding around, but disappear, tuhen en- 
ter Col. Bill and Signor Gyptum.'] 

Sig. — Say, Bill, whereabouts are we agoing to 
show? I don't see nobody around ere. 

Bill. — That's all right, Sig.; we will strike it heavy 
when we get to the diamond mines. 

Sig. — When we gets there; but when do we? 

Bill. — Oh I we will soon get there; they told me at 
the last j)lace that it was not far; but, Sig. — 

Sig.— What? 

Bill. — Have you got your credentials with you? 

Sig. — Yes, there all right, you bet. 

Bill. — Then you are the real, genuine, original Si- 
mon-pure, and no mistake — Queen Victoria's Royal 
Nursery Jester? 

Sig. — 'Ears me papers. [Opens and reads.'] No- 
tice to all what it concerns; that this Royal Dockay- 
ment is to prove that the gentleman what holds this 
is the genuine " Right Honerable Mr. Signor G-yp- 
tuili, Esq., P. J." 

Bill.— P. J.: what's that stand for? 

Sig. — Punch and Judy, better known as Queen 
Victoria's Royal Nursery Jester, and his troupe of 
lilliputian wooden-headed mimics, in their original 
operatic Comical Tradgedy of Punch and Judy. P. 
S. Please excuse blots and bad spelling. In 'aste, 
yours, truly, Queen Victoria, Emperer of the In- 
dias. 






41 

Bill. — Something like; something like; that will 
catch them every time. There's lots of English at 
the Diamond mines, and every man of them will 
give a diamond to see the Queen's own Jester. 
Hello! here comes some one. [Enter Cap. Bel- 
inont.'] 

Cap. Belm. — Ah! good day, gentlemen. 

Bill and Sig. — Good day, sir. 

Bill. — Who have I the honor of addressing? 

Cap. Belm. — I am Captain Belmont of her Ma- 
jesty's Army. 

Bill. — Then allow me to present to your notice, 
Signor Gyptum her Majesty's Royal Jester. 

Cap. Belm [siirpi^ised]. — Happy to meet you, Sig- 
nor Gypter. 

Sig. — Ditto Cap; ^iiio [they shake hands]. Cap- 
tain, this 'ere gentleman is Colonel Bill. [Cap. and 
Bill boiu to each othiv, Sig. bcnvs to both.] 

Bill. — Happy to meet you, Captain. Shake old 
hoy, shake. [They shake.] 

Cap. Belm. — Colonel, may I he so hold as to ask 
to what service you belong? 

Bill.— Why, to the great American and European 
Transatlantic Quadruple Amusement and Novelty 
Combination. 

Cap. Belm [5??zz7mg]. — Ah! I see; well, gentlemen, 
my company is marching to the Cape and I just 
strayed ahead a little to see if I could get some shoot- 
ing, so I will have to bid you good day and rejoin 
them. 

Bill. — All right, Cap; here's a pass; drop in and 
see the show. [Exit Cap. Belm.] 

Sig. — Say, Bill, my being a Jester is what fetched 
him; didn't it brake 'im all up. 

Bill. — I don't know; say, Sig, why the deuce 
didn't you ask the w^ay? 

Sig. — I don't know; but, why didn't you? 

Bill. — I'm blamed if I know. 

[Two monkeys have hold of the same cocoanut and 
jump up and down, screaming.] 

Bill. — Say, Sig., twig the monks. 

Sig. — I say. Bill, we're rich, we are. 

Bill. — Now, Sig.; on a rough guess, what do you 



42 

think these monks are worth when we get them to 
New York ? 

Sig. — 'ow many do you think we have got ? 

Bill. — Well, there's more nor a million to get. 

Sig. — And they are worth $10 each at least ? 

Bill. — Yes ; bankrupt prices at that. 

Sig. — Let me see, one million, at $J0 each ; why. 
Bill, that must be more than a hundred thousand 
dollars. 

Bill. — My English friend, the total abstinence of 
mathematical inspiration incorporated inyourunin- 
tellectual system is truly astonishing. 

Sig.— What is it, Bill ? 

Bill. — Come, let us get our monkeys. 

Sig. — How ? 

BiU. — Do you see this bottle ? [Holds up bottle.'] 

Sig. — I should smile. 

Bill. — Well, you aint going to smile out of this, 
but you can get me a cocoanut instead. 

Si^- — ore's one. Bill ; now, what are you going to 
do with it ? 

Bill. — I'll show you ; but first break it in half. 

Sig. — No sooner done than said. 

Bill. — [Pouts liduor into cocoanut from bottle.'] 
There, that will do it. 

Sig. — Ah! yum, yum ; that smells good. 

Bill. — Yes ; that smell catches monks as well as 
Punch and Judy men. 

Sig. — Ah ! I should like to see the creetur as it 
wouldn't catch ; but how will it catch monks ? 

Bill. — Why, we will make believe diink it, and 
then put it down and go away. Here, what are you 
doing ? [Seizes bottle from Sig., ivho tvas drinking.] 

Sig. — Making believe drink it, and putting it down. 

Bill. — [Looks at bottle.] Yes, I see you've been 
putting it down pretty lively. Sig., I fine you five 
dollars for breaking the rules [marks down on book\ 
of this company, by drinking intoxicating liquor. 

Sig. — Oh, Lord ! all the time fined ; I can't never 
get a new stitch of clothes even for Punch. Say, 
Bill, how much is there coming to me now ? 

Bill. — Let me see : [looks at book] you are now in 
my debt four dollars. 



43 

Sig. — Jimeny ! I'm getting rich fast. But how 
about catching our monks ? 

Bill. — Oh, yes, I was telling you how to catch 
them; well you see we make out drink the liquor, 
then put it down and come away? 

Sig.— What then? 

Bill. — Why the monks will do the same as if I 
came away and left you. 

Sig.— What's that? 

Bill. — Why, get drunk, of course. 

Sig. — Now, Bill, I 'as my feelings, and I don't 
like nobcdy to insinevate. 

Bill. — Oh, I'm not insinuating; come along with 
me [puts doivn liquor and then hide]. 

Bill. — Say, Sig., what are you emptying them 
mimics out of the bag for? 

Sig. — Why, to put the monks in. 

Bill. — Put the monks in, why, that's not large 
enough to hold one. 

Sig. — That's so, Bill, you'r right. Well, I'll fix 
them up while we are waiting. Say, Bill? 

Bill.— What? 

Sig. — Say, Bill, what am I going to have out of 
this 'ere spec? 

Bill. — Oh, I'll do what's right; there's nothing 
mean about me. 

Sig. — Look, Bill! if there ain't monkeys a rowing 
a boat ! 

Bill. — They ain't monkeys, they're nigs; say, Sig., 
wipe off them figures' faces; they are too dirty, even 
to look natural. 

Sig.— All right. Bill. 

Bill. — Put a little red on that cop's nose; who ever 
saw a cop without a red nose? 

Sig. — Yes, I'd like to know that. But, say. Bill, 
I think that stuff is too weak to make them monks 
drunk. 

Bill. — Why, they're not copper lined like you. 
There they are, off their kerbase allready; come, let 
us gather them while they are ripe. [They gather 
monkeys. Cannibals sneak in and fire spear. It 
sticks near Bill. He turns and sees Cannibals. 
Monkeys all escape. More spears are fired and Bill 



44 

jumps around to avoid them and hallooes while S£g. 
hides behind rock. Cannibals commence to laugh 
at Bill] 

Sig. — Keep it up Bill — keep it up Bill while I 
screetches for 'elp. Keep it up or we are goners, 
sure. 

[Bill gets tilled and tries sloiv dance. Cannibals 
then throw another spear.'] 

Bill. — Sig., Try them on punch, and see if that 
will hold them. I'm nearly done up. [Sig. puts up 
figure. Cannibals laugh, but after atvhile they get 
tired and begin to yell.] 

Bill. — Sig., Sig., they 're getting tired; come, dance; 
dance for your life; if you don't you will be eaten 
raw. [Sig. joins in dance, same time working fig- 
ures. They get tired and try Pat Rooney biz. Can- 
nibals i^ush at them. One snatches figure from Sig. 
and trys to knock its brains out against a tree. Sig. 
knocks Cannibal doion and beats him ivith figure, 
while Billfioors one after another, but they are over- 
powered and tied to trees. Punch being also tied 
to tree. Cannibals dance and showmen yell. In 
rushes Ed. and croiud, fight Cannibcds, bid are over- 
powered. Some are tied to trees, others hand and 
feet — the tiuo women to trees.] 

Bill. — Sig., Sig., tell them that you are the Queen's 
Eoyal Jester, that may stop them. 

Sig. — Ah, Col. Bill, as I expects soon to die I con- 
fesses I am not a genuine, but I am as good as 
though I was. 

Bill. — Then we are lost. 

Mrs. M. — Oh. Heavenly Father, have I not suf- 
fered enough? Oh, what have I done that I should 
be tortured like this, parted from my darling child 
for more than twenty )^ears, twenty years of terri- 
ble heartrending sorrow and uncertainty, then after 
having him unexpectedly restored to me, grown to 
manhood, the image of his father, high minded, 
true loving, everything my fondest hopes could wish, 
to have him again ruthlessly torn from my arms, 
almost before his first welcome kiss has grown cold 
on my lips, God help me! 

Ed. — Oh, mother, dearest mother, do not despair; 



45 

God who has watched over and protected us so lon^ 
will not desert us now. 

Kate. — Dear Brother, oh, that these savages 
would be satisfied with my life and let you live for 
ray poor mother. [so65.] 

Ed.— Kate, if I could only get my limbs free I 
think there might still be hope of escape. 

Mrs. M. — Ob, God, my heart will burst. 

Cap. M.^-There, mother, my dear wife, do not 
give up hope, you who have kept up for so many 
years of misery will surely not succumb now\ 

Mrs. M. — Yes, father, I have kept up through 
supreme effort in the almost hopeless search for tid- 
ings of my lost child, but after the joy of having 
my wildest hopes more than realized, this new mis- 
fortune (from which there seems no escape), has 
dashed aside my new born happiness; my burthen 
is too heavy; forgive me father, I cannot help it; I 
sink beneath it. [faints.] 

Ed. — Can Heaven still look so calm while these 
fiends of Hell torture that saint like fo2^m; oh, God, 
forgive me for losing faith; my brain's on fire; I 
cannot endure this anguish, I shall go mad, mad. 
[di^ojJS struggling. | 

Cap M. — Forget not my dear children that there 
is a higher power than all on earth, who can deliver 
us from our dreadful fate. My children and friends, 
let us pray to the all powerful God for his help: 

Jas. — Massa Ed., Massa Ed., I understand wot 
des say, and deys going fur ter 

Ed. — All right friend Jasper, don't tell it. 

Jas. — Yes, but Massa Ed, deys going fur 

J. ThomiD. — It don't matter Jasper, it don't mat- 
ter. 

Jas.^ — It does matter, deys going ter kill Massa 
Ed. 

Ed. — Hush Jasper, hush, I say. 

Kate. — Oh, brother, I can see by their wicked 
glances that these savages intend to do us some ter- 
rible harm. Oh, is there no hope of rescue? 

Bill. — Yes, Miss, but it's a mighty slim one. 

Kate. -Oh, what is it? 

Bill. — I heard just before you came that a com- 



46 

pany of English soldiers would soon pass near here 
on their way to the Cape, if we could let them know 
the trouble, we would receive help. 

J. Thonip. — What^ did you say there was help 
near? 

Bill. — Yes; soldiers. 

J. Thomp.— Where? 

Bill. — In that direction, and they can't be far 
away now. 

J. Thomp. — Oh, God, I must get free [tries]. Oh, 
these terrible thongs they cut my flesh to the bones. 
Heaven pray give me strength to burst my bonds, 
no matter what torture, I must get free [_gets loose\\ 
friends, I am loose; keep up your courage, I will 
make a dash for liberty and help [dashes off, Canni- 
bals folloiu, but return without him; they then dance 
around and lead out Ed]. 

Mrs. M. — [who has just revived]. Oh, Edward, Ed- 
ward, my darling son, it cannot be that the Lord 
will allow these fiends in human form to murder 
my darling before his mother's eyes. 

Kate. — Hark! I hear a sound of drums; yes, and 
it is coming this way. 

Jas. — Yes, Missy Kate heard right, der's drums, 
and dey's coming dis way fast [all cry for help, an- 
swers from distance; Cannibals make Ed kneel 
down, while one dances around tvith club; he goes 
to strike, but Ed jumps up, knocks Cannibal 
down and seizes club; he swings club around 
keejnng. them at bay, tvhen one gets be- 
hind and is about to stab him in the 
back, luhen the mother shrieks. Cannibal stops 
for moment, and as he again goes to strike, J. 
Thomp^ rushes in, seizes knife and stabs Cannibal. 
Savages are about to rush at him, when some shots 
are fired and the soldiers rush in with fixed bayonets 
with Cap. Belm. at their head, they kill aud disperse 
the savages, while some release prisoners, mother, 
daughter and father and Ed. embrace, while sol- 
diers, savages, d:c., form tableau. 

Curtain Falls. 



47 

ACT Y. 

Scene 1st. {Room in Mr. Fergnson^s house. Mr. 
Feiguson discovered in chair, looking cd porti^ait 
of Ed. 

[Enter Thomas.^ 

Thom. — Two gentlemen down stairs, sir, wish to 
see you. 

Fer. — Their names ? 

Thom. — I asked them for their names, sir, and 
they said that they could not spare them; but here 
they are coining up. \_He goes to stop them, hid is 
pushed aside, and Ed. runs to Ferguson, seizing his 
hand and nearly crushing it. Fer. looks surprised 
and offended, draiving his hand away.'] 

Ed. — Why, it cannot be possible that you have 
forgotten me ? 

Fer. — Eh, ah no, it camiot be; it is not you, is it, 
Ed.? 

Ed. — Yes, yes, it is me; did you forget me, my 
dear friend ? 

Fer. — Forget you, no indeed, Ed. ; but you have 
changed so in appearance that I did not know you 
at first; give me your hand, my boy; ha! ha! so it is 
actually you. 

Ed. — Yes, dear friend, I know that I have changed, 
but, believe me, it is only outwardly; but, excuse 
me, I was forgetting, allow me to introduce my 
friend. Captain Thompson, Mr. Ferguson. [They 
shake hands, &c.] 

Ed. — I have not asked after my friends yet. I 
feel— 

Fer. — They are well, Ed., you need not fear. 

Ed.— And Alice. 

Fer.— Is well, too, but looks rather pale and care- 
worn, but you are the doctor to cure all that; the 
rest of the family are all enjoying good health. 

Ed. — I have news, dear friend, that I think will 
please all. 

Fer.— What is it, Ed.? 

Ed. — I have found my father, mother and sister. 

Fer. — What? is it possible, Ed.; when and where 
did you find them, and where are they now, Ed. ? 



48 

Ed. — The,y are now in New York City, we just 
arrived to-day, and I immediately came over 
here to se3 you and the rest of my friends, and also 
to clear np the mystery that mAist have attended my 
sudden disappearance. 

Fer. — Well, Ed., I am heartily glad that you have 
come back, and I cannot say that I am sorry for 
what has happened, as it has been for the best, after 
all. 

Ed. — What did you think had become of me ? 

Fer. — Well, my dear boy, I can honestly say that 
from the first I have protested in your innocence, 
notwithstanding the evidence was unexplainable 
and certainly not in your favor. 

Ed. — Evidence not in my, favor; why, my dear 
friend, I do not understand you; what do you 
mean ? 

Fer. — Why, Ed., you surely are aware that on 
the night you disappeared my office was robbed. 

Ed.— What! robbed, did you say ? 

Fer. — Yes, did you uot know of that ? 

Ed. — No, how could I; but tell me all about it. I 
cannot fathom this. 

Ferg. — Well, as I said before, the night of your 
disappearance the safe was robbed. I was going to 
Washington early that morning, and called into the 
office to leave a note for you, but when I got to the 
door it was open, and when I entered I found every- 
thing in confusion, and the safe open, which, upon 
examination, I discovered was robbed of over 
$150,000. 

Ed. — Great Heavens ! how could that have hap- 
pened ? for I remember as distinctly as though it 
was but this minute that I securely locked the safe 
the night before, then put the key in my pocket. 
Ah ! the keys in my pocket ; how was the safe 
opened ? 

Ferg. — With our keys. 

Ed. — Our keys ! Why I lost them the night I 
was seized by mistake as being one of this gentle- 
man's crew ; they were in the pocket of my coat ; so 
then it was the keys that caused suspicion of me as 
being the guilty party. 



49 

Ferg. — And your coat. 

Ed. — What ! my coat also ; oh ! who could it have 
been that has attempted to brand me as a thief ? 

Ferg.— Never mind, Ed. ; it is not worth troubhng 
yourself about it now ; the thief only succeeded in 
taking $1,000, after all. 

Ed.— Only $1,000 taken. Why, I thought you 
said there was over $150,000 taken ? 

Ferg. — Yes, so there was from the safe, but it 
was all recovered except $1,000. 

Ed.— Where? how-? 

Ferg. — In a hat which was lying on the floor near 
the window, from which it is supposed the burglars 
escaped. 

Ed. — The money in the hat ? 

Ferg. — Yes, with the name of John T. on it. 

J. Thomp.— What ! my hat ? 

Ferg. — Your hat. 

Ed. — Oh, friend Thompson, can you not explain 
some of this mystery? Yes, yes, 1 can see by your face 
that you can ; then, for Heaven's sake, do so ; re- 
member when you were shot with poisoned arrows 
in Africa how I sucked the wounds at the risk of 
my own life, and I would have risked it again a 
hundred times, if need be, to save yours; so, if you 
know aught of this robbery, speak and save my 
honor, which to me is even more precious than life 
itself ; tell them what you know and clear me from 
all suspicion ; remember that you promised to clear 
all up when we arrived here. 

J. Thomp. — Yes, Ed and I will if I have to lose my 
life in doing so. 

Ed. — But why did you not tell me of the robbery 
before? 

J. Thomp. — Because I did not know of it. 

Ed. — You did not know of it, then you cannot 
clear me? 

J. Thomp. — Yes, Ed, I will prove you innocent of 
all yet; I did not know of this robbery before, but 
now my eyes are opened, I beg-in to see through it 
all. Oh, why should I be brought into everlasting 
dishonor, even when I in my weakness think that 
I am doing right; I wall be so no more but will tell 



60 

all; then, though you will abhor me, you will pity 
me, friend I must no longer c.^ll you. 

Ed.-— That shall not be, f or yOu have proved your- 
self a friend to me and mine, and that, I shall al- 
ways be unto you no matter what you are. If what 
you have to say makes you feel so bad, then tell it 
not, even though your silence injure me. 

Ferg. — Give me your hand Ed, those are the feel- 
ings of a genuine man, true, loving and forgiving. 

J. Thomp. — Thank you, Ed, noble, kind hearted 
fellow that you are, but before I again call you 
friend (although I will alw^ays remain that to you) I 
must tell my story, then judge me. Seven years 
ago Hived in London, where I worked as a junior 
clerk at a small salary, so small indeed, that it did 
not serve me for common necessaries, but I could 
then look in an}'- face with a conscience free from 
guilt, having the proad knowledge that though 
poor^ I was an honest man, which to me was a far 
nobler title than any wealth alone could purchase. 
Yes, I was then honest, and should have remained 
so, had not my tempter appeared in the person of a 
former school mate of mine, whom I had not seen 
for many years, but who had alw^ays exercised a 
subtle influence over my rather weak mind, he 
was well dressed and well fed, and he laughed at 
me for starving, when I could get plenty by merely 
helping myself, he said that the world owed me a 
living, and if it did not give it to me, why, take it 
of course. Being half starved, I at last was tempt- 
ed, and helped rob a merchant's office, my share of 
the plunder being $3,000, which like all ill 
gotten gains went the way it came, I actu- 
ally feeling relieved w^hen I stood penniless; since 
then until this unfortunate affair I have been hon- 
est, and have managed to save the full amount w-e 
took with interest, but I have been unable to dis- 
cover the merchant, as he had left for America soon 
after the robbery. 

Ferg. — Did you know his name? 

J. Thomp. — Yes, how could I ever forget it? I 
heard afterward that the robbery completely ruined 
him; his name was George Ferguson. 



51 

Ferg. — And he kept in King street? 

J. Thomp. — Yes, yes. What! did you know him? 

Ferg. — Yes. 

J. Thorn p. — Then tell me where he is, that I may 
repay him and suffer my just penalty. 

Ferg. — I am he whom you so wronged. 

J. Thomp. — You? Then have me punished as I de- 
serve. 

Ferg. — No, but I will forgive you all on one con- 
dition. 

J. Thomp. — Name it, name it; let it be what it 
may I am content, for I have found you. 

Ferg. — And that condition is, that you shall clear 
up the mystery surrounding Edward, as much as 
lies within your power. 

J. Thomp.— I will, I will; Oh, Ed. I must tell you 
that you were purposely abducted by me. 

Ed. — Purposely abducted by you? No, I cannot 
believe it, why should you do so? 

J. Thomp. — Because I met my fcrmer partner in 
guilt, who told me that you were hunting him down 
for a reward, and that he would be compelled to 
commit murder to save his own life, if I did not re- 
move you from his track, which I believing, very 
foolishly consented to do. 

Ferg. — And the robbery? 

J. Thomp. — Of that I am perfectly innocent, but 
upon the night of Ed's abduction I lost my hat, and 
found another, which I think will prove a clue to 
fasten the crime upon the guilty one, whom I now 
have good reason to suspect to be he who first 
tempted me to crime. 

Ferg. — But where can he be found now? 

J. Thomp. — I believe that he's on this island, and 
not far from here, and if you have the faith to trust 
me, after hearing what I am, I wiU. do my best to 
find him. 

Ed. — Go friend Thompson, and may God lead you 
to success; I put full faith in all you say. 

Ferg. — And so do I; but by the way, here is the 
address of the detective engaged on the case; if you 
should call on him you might be of mutual service 
to each other [hands card]. 



52 

J. Thorap. — Thank you, my dearest friends, for 
that y.ou have proved yourselves to be, but, before 
I go allow me to return the amount we so merci- 
lessly stole from you, here it is, the full amount 
with interest. 

Ferg. — Not now, friend Thompson, when you re- 
turn we can talk it over. 

J. Thomp. — No, I cannot stir unless you accept 
what is rightly yours, then I can go about with a 
light heart for the first time in seven years. [Pays 
money to Ferg.^ 

Ferg. — John Thompson, there is the making of a 
good man in you. 

J. Thomp. — I now feel like a man once more; I 
will succeed, for I will know no such word as fail. 
I will return here at six to-night. [Exit.'] 

Ferg. — Poor fellow, he has indeed suffered for his 
one wrong step. Is he rich, Ed? 

Ed. — No, he can't be, for he lost his vessel 
which was not insured, and he has now given you 
his money belt with its entire contents, I believe, 
and which he always guarded most carefully. 

Ferg. — He has, and now has the heart to feel hap- 
py. Well, Ed., what are thinking of? 

Ed, — I was wondering if Alice also, like others, 
believe me guilty. 

Ferg. —No indeed, Alice would hear of nothing 
against you, but insisted that all would yet come 
out right. 

Ed. — Dear, generous-hearted girl, and I so near 
her now, I must not delay longer but run over and 
see her. 

Ferg. — No, Ed., my boy, as a favor to me wait 
awhile, for I have promised Alice a present on her 
birthday, which is to day, Christmas. 

Ed. — And was to have been our wedding-day. 

Ferg. — And will too. 

Ed. — Ah! but perhaps Alice — 

Ferg. — Stop Ed, I know what you will say, but 
she still remains the same to you. I am old, but 
not too old to see that, eh, Ed., ha! ha! ha! 

Ed. — But why not let me go and see her now? 

Ferg. — Because it would spoil a nice little surprise 



53 

that I have in store for her, ha! ha! ha! The pres- 
ent I am going to give her is that [points to portrait 
of Ed. in Easel]. 

Ed. — What! my portrait? 

Ferg. — Yes, but as there appears to be some httle 
difference between it and you as you now appear, I 
wish to present her with the original to judge the 
hkeness by, but I want to present them in my own 
style, do you see, Ed.? 

Ed. — All right, dear friend, whatever you say I 
will do. 

Ferg. — Well, we have over three hours yet, so let 
us hasten over after your father and mother. 

Ed.— And sister. Don't forget sister Kate. 

Ferg. — And Kate. Oh, you lucky fellow, Ed., I 
almost wish that I w^as wrecked, that I might find 
a sister, too, ha! ha! ha! Well, Ed., come along, 
and as we go you must tell me all about your ad- 
ventures [exit together']. 

Scene 2d: — Open country. 

[Enter, Thompson and Jasver]. 

J. Thomp. — Now, Jasper, I v/ant you to take par- 
ticular notice of the man whom I am going to meet 
presently, so that you will know him wherever you 
may see him afterwards, and also to what we may 
say to each other, so that, if required, you can re- 
peat every w^ord; you must be sure that you make 
no mistake. 

Jas. — I ain't a making no mistakes just now, 
captain. 

J. Thomp. — Then, Jasper, you think that you 
know exactly what you have to do? 

Jas. — Yes, sar, and by Golly I does it, too. 

J. Thomp. — That's right, but of course you un- 
derstand that you must not let this man see you, or 
he would not speak out and give himself away; but 
hide; 1 see him coming [Jas. hides]. Am I doing 
aught that is wrong in delivering Hovey up to jus- 
tice? No, I do not think I am, for even as partners 
in crime he proved false by leading me into abduct- 
ing an innocent man- to further his own base 
schemes. No, he has been my ruin, and if I let him 
escape through any false idea of mercy he may sue- 



54: 

ceed in leading others astray as he did me [enter 
County. 

Count. — So, John, you have returned, and, I sup- 
pose, want to be paid for the job. Well, if you wish 
any money you will have to give me a hand in a 
little snap that I have laid out for to-night, for I 
have not got the money yet. 

J. Thomp. — No money; why what did you do with 
the thousand dollai's you got the night of the abduc- 
tion? 

Count. — What thousand dollars? 

J. Thomp. — The thousand dollars you got out of 
the safe? 

Count. — Hush ! how do you know it was me that 
robbed the safe? 

J. Thomp. — Because you left my hat behind and 
I had yours. 

Count.— Yes, damn it, if it had not been for that 
hat of yours I might now have been a rich and high- 
toned man; you will have to help me still further. 

J. Thomp.— How? 

Count. — By helping me to kidnap a girl. 

J. Thomp. — And if I refuse? 

Count. — I am not afraid of your refusing, for you 
dare not. 

J. Thomp. —Oh, Jack, pray let me off from assist- 
ing any more in these crimes which can only lead to 
prison or something worse. 

Count. — See here John Thompson, if you are be- 
ginning to snivle at this late day, the next thing 
you will be peaching. Now, I want you to under- 
stand that there is no let up in me, so you have to do 
just as I want you or you'll be a goner in less than 
no time. Do you hear? 

J. Thomp. — Well, if I must I must, I suppose, but 
I ask you again. Jack, to have mercy on me, and do 
not ask me to commit any more crime. 

Count. — Ha! ha! ha! well, you'r a nice chicken; 
some frightened girl, I think, trying to pass of as ^ 
man, but John Thompson it won't do, with a word 
I can send you behind the iron bars for the rest of 
your miserable life, so you have to do just as I tell 
you without any furthei' palaver, too. 



55 

J. Thomp. — Wellj where does the girl hve that is 
to he kidnapped? 

Count. — Over in that house with her uncle, Judge 
Pendleton. She was engaged to that skunk that 
you took away. 

J. Thomp. — When you get her what do you mean 
to do with her? 

Count. — Do with her? why bring her to a hiding 
place that I know of that would never be discovered. 
The girl's rich and worth a ransom, and I mean to 
get it; do you understand? 

J. Thomp. — T think I do. 

Count. — Ah ! I will make a man of 5^ou yet. All 
you have to do in this case is to be outside the house 
at eight o'clock to-night. This being Christmas 
they will have a party there, and under some pre- 
tence I will 2:et her to walk out on the balcony, then 
you come up behind and we will gag and bind her, 
then hurry her off in a carriage which I will have 
in waiting. 

J. Thomp. — Oh, that's the way is it ; then all 
right. 

Count. — You will be there without fail ? 

J. Thomp. — Yes, I will. 

Count.— All right, I must go ; remember eight 
o'clock, and see that you'r on time. lExit.'] 

J. Thomp. — Yes, I will be there, and endeavor to 
undo some of the villainy which I so unconsciously 
assisted in accomplishing. Jasper, come, he is out 
of sight now. 

Jas. — Yes, sar, hab he gone? 

J. Thomp. — He's gone; did you hear what he 
said, and notice his looks ? 

Jas. — Yes, sar, and T seed him too. Him am the 
same man what eaid Massa Ed. was a sorter. Isent 
I right, Captain ? 

J. Thomp. — Yes, Jasper, he is the same one, but 
tell me how did you recognize him ? 

Jas. — Ise black. Captain, but I isent no fool, I 
isent. I seed a bit of his led hair sticking out from 
under his black wig, and I knowed his eyes as soon 
as I seed him. 

J. Thomp. — Jasper. 



56 

Jas. — Yes, sar. 

J. Thornp. — Do you still agree to help Ed. and I 
to foil this villain to-night ? 

Jas. — Shurel'se born. Captain, I will help, even if 
Tse killed I don't care, anytime I'se ready fur to 
help you or Massa Ed. 

J. Thomp. — Thank you, Jasper, you area faithful 
fellow. Come then let us prepare for to-night, for 
the man we have to deal with is no coward. 

Jas.— Dis am going to be a black night for some- 
body shure as you live. Captain, and dis chile am 
going to hab his share of de fun, you bet. 

Scene 3rd — Parlor in Judge Pendleton^s House. 
Alice discovered arranging flowers 

Al. — This then is Christmas at last, and I am now 
of age. This was to have been my wedding day. 
Alas ! what a sad wreck I feel, instead of the joyful 
happy bride I should have been ; and Edward, 
where can he be ? Not the slightest news of him in 
all these long weary months. What dreadful myst 3ry 
hangs over his fate. Oh ! my heart fears the worst, 
kind Heaven, can it be that I will never see my first 
and only love again? Oh! Father of Mercy, pray re- 
store him to me; even if guilty, I cannot bat love him. 
What — What have I said? If he were guilty; 
guilty — 'tis false; a base slander on the noblest and 
truest heart that ever beat. 

[Enter Florence.] 

Flo. — Ah, Alice, still grieving after Edward; you 
must cheer up; the runaway will return one of these 
days, so don't look so woe-begone. 

Al. — It seems so strange, Florence, if living, his 
continued silence. He may have been foully dealt 
with — murdered, perhaps. Oh horror! Horror! 
His corpse now crying for vengeance, while I, who 
love him so, instead of avenging his wrongs, am 
only fretting and crying for his return. 

Flo. — Alice dear, you think too seriously of Ed- 
ward's absence. Of course it appeais strange that 
none of us can account for it in any way, but still 
it is folly imagining that he has been murdered just 
because he has not made known his whereabouts; 



67 

of course I will not pretend to say that nothing has 
happened to him. 

Al. — Florence, when I think of him being harmed, 
my weak womanhood vanishes, my arm grows 
strong and my courage rises to that of the tigress in 
defence of her young. Oh, Edward, let thy spirit 
guide me to your destroyers, and they will indeed 
feel a woman's vengeance for the loss of one dearer 
to her than her life's blood. 

Flo. — Alice! Alice! What has come over you? I 
never saw you thus before. You seem to be entirely 
changed; you, so gentle and loving, to be threaten- 
ing revenge — it frightens me, Alice, to listen to you. 
You must not let your feelings overcome you in this 
way, dear cousin ; besides, you will spoil your sweet 
face for your birthday party. 

Al. — Oh! I must be losing my senses, Florence, to 
be crying for vengeance, and this " Christmas, the 
day of peace and good will unto all" — Oh! I must 
be mad. Do I not know that Ood above rules all? 
Yes; Edward's spirit seems to whisper me patience, 
and put my trust in our Heavenly father, for He 
never deserts His children who put their full faith in 
Him. Oh, Lord, forgive me my great wicked- 
ness — but my love, my darling love, how can I live 
without him? 

Flo. — Alice, love, I never before saw you act in 
this manner. Dearest cousin it grieves me to see 
you in such dis^tress. 

Al. — Florence, dear, pray forgive me, for I feel 
that my heart must soon break; but I must try to 
compose myself and not mar the pleasure of my 
friends by my selfish sorrow; but Florence dear, 
asleep or awake, Edward is ever present in my 
thoughts; cheering hopes and despairing grief alter- 
nate each other in my careworn breast; in my sleep 
I ever see Edward in some dire danger, on the brink 
of death, while I stand by and am unable to reach 
my hand to save him. Oh, merciful father! if this 
is to continue pray relieve me from my wretched 
life, for I cannot endure it much longer and retain 
my senses! [^Drops in chair and covers face with 
hands.'] 



58 

Flo.-- Alice, dear cousin, what anguish you must 
indeed suffer! Oh, let my love ease your pain. 
Alice, dear, how happy I should feel to see your 
face full of smiles and happiness as it once was. If 
this is being in love keep me out of it. Alice, I see 
the Count coming up the walk. I do hate that 
man; I don't see how father can tolerate him. If it 
depended on me he would never enter this house. 
[Enter James.'] 

James. — Count Casinovia. [Exit James.] 

Flo.— Then I leave. [Exit.] . 

Al. — Florence, dear. 

[Enter Count, halving.] 

Coimt. — Why, Miss Alice, you look pale and sad, 
and on this joyful day, too; I hope that you feel 
well, for I came on purpose to wish you a merry 
Christmas. 

Al. — Thank you, Count; I hope it will prove a 
more happy one to you than it is to me. 

Count. — Miss Alice, I assure you that it pains me 
greatly to see you continue to grieve so for one who 
from every appearance must be quite unworthy of 
you. 

Al. — Count, it is useless for me to pretend that I 
do not understand you, for I do; I know that you 
allude to Edward, and I beg that you will never 
speak in this manner to me again. 

Count. — Dear Miss Alice, if I said anything to of- 
fend you, pray forgive me, for if I spoke too plainly 
it was only my great love for you forced me to it. 
[Alice slioius impatience.] Remember how patient 
and uncomplaining I have been these sixteen months 
{which seem to me double the number of years) loving 
you as no man ever loved before, and take pity on 
me I again offer you my hand with title and wealth. 
I will be your willing slave if j^ou will only honor 
me by becoming my Countess. 

Al. — Count, I should think from what I have al- 
ready said that you would see how worse than use- 
less it is to make me any such offers, and I hope that 
this will be the last time. 

Count. — My dear Miss Alice, do not decide rashly, 
pray consider w-^ at you are refusing, think of the 



59 

high social position you would occupy, the titled 
mistress of my castle, you would have unlimited 
control over all, the entire population of my vast 
estates would bow down to you, I and my followers 
would be too willing to obey your slightest wish. 

Al. — Stop, sir! I wish to hear no more. 

Count. — But, Miss, allow me to finish; there has 
now elapsed time enough to prove my undying love, 
and also time enough to prove the falseness of he 
you still think so much of. 

Al. — Sir, if you do not desist I will leave the 
room. 

Count . — Alice, pray listen to me, can it be possible 
Miss, that you insist in following the same course of 
behaivour, .does it not strike you as at least a very 
questionable way of acting, to refuse an upright, 
titled gentleman who adores you, for what? — a 
young man without fame or fortune, and who has 
proved himself untrue to you, and whom every un- 
biased person believes to be an ungrateful thief. 

Al.— Silence, sir; how dare you force me to lis- 
ten to such vile falsehoods uttered in Edward's ab- 
sence ; were he here, I am satisfied you would not 
dare to speak thus. 

Count. — Miss, 5^ou indulge in very plain language, 
but when you say my assertions are false, pray, have 
you any proof that they are so, everything that I 
know of points to the truth of all I say. 

Al. — Unhappily I have no proofs. Oh! that I 
had. 

Count. — Well, then, Miss Alice, with all respect 
to you, before I leave I insist upon putting it in 
clear language, which I do merely in justice to my- 
self. I should think that any lady, if not perfectly 
blind, would see that if a young man really loved 
her, he would never remain absent all these months 
without corresponding in some way with her, giving 
him all the benefit of any doubts there can possibly 
be that he is a thief, it comes to this, either that he 
cares nothing for you, or that he must be dead. 

Al. — Sir, if you do not leave me of your own ac- 
cord, I shall be compelled to ring, for I will not 
listen to another word. 



60 

Count. — Well, Miss, since you wish me to leave, 
of course I obey; but I am sorry that you will not 
listen to reason. [Retires to back of stage]. 
[Enter Judge and Florence']'^ 

Jud. — Ah, Count, you here. I wish you a merry 
Christmas. 

Count. — Thank, you, Judge; and I beg leave to 
wish both you and Miss Florence the same. 

Jud. — I came in to see if my neice, Miss Alice, 
would not like to take a ride with us to the village. 
Come, Alice, my dear, it will do you good; it will 
bring the roses back to your cheeks again. 

Count. — Yes, I was remarking that Miss Alice 
looked rather pale. 

Al. — No, I thank you. Uncle; I will remain and 
assist Aunt. 

Flo. — Oh! Alice, come; it will revive you. We 
are going to call on Mr. Ferguson to tell him to come 
early, and we won't be long; there will be plenty of 
time for every preparation we want to make, and a 
sleigh ride, in the bracing air, will make you feel 
yourself again. 

Al. — No, Florence; pray do not think of me, but 
start at once and enjoy yourself. 

Jud. — Well, Count, as Ahce won't go, we can 
make room for you if you wish to ride to the village. 

Count. — I will accept your offer with thanks. 
Judge. 

Jud. — Then, come along; there is plenty of room 
in the sleigh for all, if you do not mind sitting with 
Florence, and being a little crowded; I know Flor- 
ence won't mind it, but if anything rather like it; 
ha! ha! ha! [All laugh]. 

Flo. — Papa, you know that is not true; you are a 
great tease. 

Jud. — Ha! ha! Girls always were and always will 
he the same; so come. Count; but you must not stop 
there; recollect our party to-night; for we can't get 
along without you; so you must promise, Count. 

Count. — You flatter me greatly, Judge; but you 
may rely on me, as it would be a great disappoint- 
ment to myself to be absent. 

Jud. — Well, let us start before it gets too late. 
[Exit Count, Florence and Judge]. 



61 

Count. — All revoir, Miss Alice. 

Al. — Great Heavens, grant me patience. Is it 
not enough to suffer as I do, but that I must -en- 
dure this man's impertinence and calumny of Ed- 
ward. Such torments, inflicted too, by one whom I 
detest. 

[^Enter Aunt] 

Ah, dear aunt, you must be tired; how selfish of 
me to leave you alone so long. 

Aunt. — Not at all, Alice, dear. But why did you 
not take a sleigh ride with your uncle ? 

Al. — Dearest aunt, I feel too sad. 

Aunt. — Yes, my poor darling, I know you do, and 
this- day that should have been doubly joyful to you 
only tends to renew your sorrow. Poor Edward; I 
wonder where he is at this moment? 

Al. — Yes. If I could only hear that he still lives 
even, I would be satisfied, but it is this dreadful 
suspense that is killing me. Oh, aunt, dear, do you 
really think that there is any hope that I will ever 
see him again? 

Aunt. — Yes, my dear; I do have grea^ hopes that 
he is alive and well, and that you will meet him 
again. 

Al. — Oh, Aunt, you seem to ease my aching heart 
with your kind words. 

Aunt.— That is right, my dear, cheer up; being 
so despondent will not make things any better; en- 
gage your mind in something, dear, and you will not 
have tiftie to grieve so much; finish arranging 
the Christmas green for the night, and try to 
look more cheerful; you know that it would not 
look nice to meet your friends with such a sorrowful 
looking face ; they might think their welcome 
doubtful, so try, darling, for my sake. 

Al. — I will try hard, for I know it is wrong to 
cause annoyance to my friends on account of my 
own private grief, especially as they are invited to 
make merry on this great holiday. 

Aunt. — That's right, Alice; spoken like a brave 
girl, keep up like that and you will find that time 
works wonders. Whv who knows but that there 



62 

will be some young gentleman at our party to- 
night that you may like as well as Edward. 

Al. — Oh, Aunt, pray do not speak like that to me. 

Aunt. — Well, well, my dear, it is best always to 
see first before refusing. But I must leave you to 
arrange everything here, while I see after the ser- 
vants. Keep your spirits up, Alice, and remember 
that the darkest hour is before the dawn. [Exit 
aunt.'] 

AL — Yes, my dear, kind aunt puts on a gaiety 
she does not feel, to make me forget my troubles. 
I must try and do my best to appear cheerful out- 
wardly, however I may feel in my heart. If I can 
only conceal my un happiness until the last of our 
guests are gone, I shall indeed be thankful. Now, 
I think everythmg is in order. I will rest a little, 
and try to clear my face of gloom, [Closes curtains 
and sits down; sings song, gradually falling asleep. 
Church music very low; gets darker; vision of the 
Nativity; vision fades away. Alice awakens and 
seems changed. 

Al. — Oh, what new born joy now fills my soul, 
all now seems bright hope and rapturous bliss. I 
dreamt I saw our blessed Saviour, an infant in the 
manger. His Holy Mother sat beside watching him 
with heavenly love. The music of angels' voices 
sounding around his humble cot, I saw his celestial 
face, one glance of which drove despair and hateful 
fear from out my heart, and left nought but loving 
faith and happiness instead. [Enter Florence']. 

Flo.— What! Alice, asleep? 

Al. — Yes, Florence, I suppose I must have been, 
but it did me good for I feel like myself again. 
[Opens curtain, shows Church]. 

Flo.— Hark! yes, sleigh bells, Alice, some of our 
friends are coming, we called on Mr. Ferguson but 
he was out, gone to New York to bring some 
mutual friends to our party, so Thomas told me; we 
left word for him to come as early as possible, 
[visitors arrive, Mr. Ferguson arives with Mr. and 
Mrs. Morton and Kate; introduces them as his 
friends, visitors go off occasionally for refreshments, 
music strikes up, all call for a dance, in the midst 



63 

of the dance, Ferguson luith Alice, Eel is seen peer- 
ing in the ivincloiv, Ferguson motions him mvay, 
dance over, Ferguson proposes ^' Blind man's buff,^' 
agrees to be blind man, checds and ccdches Alice, 
she is blinded and Ferguson brings in Ed, he pushes 
Ed in her icay and she catches him, guesses. No. 
No. Ferg. gets behind Ed, Alice feels iviskers and 
guesses names of those having iviskers. Ferg. says: 
If you don't guess my name this time you will have 
to marry me. Alice says: I know it is you Mr. 
Ferguson, pidls off her blind and sees Ed, and dratus 
back.] [All laugh]. 

AL — Excuse me, sir, I must ask your pardon for 
making so free with a stranger. [Ferg tidies to keep 
from laughing] but I felt so certain that it was an 
old friend that — 

Ed. — Weil, Alice, and do you not recognize an old 
friend when you see mef 

AL — What! that voice, can it be. 

Ed.— Alice darling, have you forgo tt on rrje so 
soon? 

. AL — Edward, Edward [runs into his arms, he 
leads her aside]. [Enter County. 

Count. — Good evening ladies and gentlemen. 

[Enter detective]. 

Det. — I am sorry ladies and gentlemen to mar the 
pleasure of this gathering, but my duty compels me 
to state that I have an order for the apprehension of 
the thief who robbed Mr. Ferguson, the same party 
being w^anted by the Bank of England for forgery. 

Count.— W^ell, why don't you go and find him ; 
I am sure you won't discover him here. 

Det. — I beg to differ wdth you there, for I am 
sure he is here [ge^ieral consternation ; Alice clings 
to Edivard as if she luere cfraid it was him wanted] 
and I will read a description of him which I have here. 

I Takes oid paper and reads. ] Height feet 

inches; complexion, light; hair, reddish brown, and 
has very peculiar eyes ; name, John Hovey alias 
Cockney Jack. 

Count. — Well, you have made a mistake this 
time, I think. I don't see any one answering that 
description here. 



64: 

Det. — I must be mistaken. Yes, it does seem as 
if I had made a mistake. [Thompson steps in, hut 
no one notices Jiijn.] Excuse me, ladies and gentle- 
men, for interrupting your festivities. I will with- 
draw. 

J. Thomp. — Hold ! there is your man — John. 
Hovej alias Cockney Jack, alias Count Casino via. 
[All start ujJ.] 

Count. — What ! am I, a titled gentleman, to be 
insulted by some lunatic who I suppose has just 
escaped from confinement. My friends, you had 
better remove that madman before he does harm. 

J. Thomp. — What ! Jack Hovey, have you the 
cool impudence to pretend that you don't know me'^ 
[Snatches off Count's wig.] There, behold your 
man. 

Ed. — Ah ! I see it now; it was then you who had 
me kidnapped ? 

Count. — The devil ! you here too. [Draws pistol 
and points it at Thompson. Eel. springs in front of 
Thompson, seizes Hovey's arm and wrenches the 
pistolfrom him. Hovey then springs to the win- 
dow, in the act of springing out.] 

Hovey. — Ah ! I will foil you all yet. 

Jasper. — Ise waiting for you boss. [Throws him 
down.] You must lub me, the way you throwed 
yourself into my arms. [Butts him when he struggles. 
Detective handcuffs him and is taking him off.] 

Count. — Good-bye, dear Alice ; I will keep secret 
our love affairs. [Detective and Jasper run him off'.] 

J. Thomp.— Hold! officer, I will go too; I am also — 

Ferg. — Our dear friend [takes him by hand.] 

Curtain Falls. 



II 



FOUND; 



TEUE TO THE LAST, 



A Spectacular Drama in Five Acts, 



JOSEPH A. BRUCE. 




NEW. YOKK ; 

C. It. Brn(WYNE, Printeh, 39 Rose Stiikki' 
1881. 



^^1 



i< 



IL 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




017 400 450 A ^ 




/ 



^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




Hollinger Corp. 
pH 8.5 



